"Why do you have to take your shirt off to make a poop?"

He just couldn't stand it, he wanted it off. "Mommy, help me take my shirt off!" I tried to encourage him to just go do his business and not worry about what he was wearing, but he wouldn't have any of it. He stood there with a wild look in his eye, writhing beneath his button down dress shirt, legs moving back and forth, crying out to me, "But I have to make a poop! Help me, help me take my shirt off!" Unsure of why he felt so strongly about stripping, I asked him the above question as I calmly undid each button. I felt I needed to respect his wishes yet still uncover the motivation behind them. But he couldn't focus on my words, he just watched as each button was released from its bondage, getting him closer and closer to freedom. I asked again just as he was (figuratively) ripping the shirt from his body and heading to the bathroom. All I could hear before the door closed behind him was, "Thank you mommy, thank you! I just have to go!" Was he just channeling George Costanza??