And I thought it was over….
….. But it wasn’t.
I thought it was just two and a half hours of hell. But it was more, much more. It lasted for the next few days.
It started the night of. I thought I was going to be ok. It had been 10 hours since my last meal and I wanted to test out my now fragile digestive system. And so I downed a small piece of dry white toast. Apparently, that was enough food to dislodge another round of liquidy bum pow.
A few hours later, I tried soup and a sandwich to the same result. Yay me.
And the fun continued. The gas! Oh the gas! My gut was producing gas in quantities to power New Orleans during Mardi Gras. With the exception that ass gas doesn’t let me see boobs. No, this was far and above my normal flatulent self.
There is a problem with my new found friend.
You see, I found that my new gaseous companion was actually a gamble. If I thought it was gas, it was more likely his best buddy shart. And so, it became a gamble I was likely to lose. I don’t gamble to lose, so I stopped gambling, and that really put a damper on my free time.
The next morning it was time for my regularly scheduled poo. Yes, I schedule poo time. I’ve trained my body to expel waste first thing in the morning. That way, I minimize toilet paper consumption and make use of my shower head to clean up the mess. Don’t judge, it works.
Sitting down on the cold porcelain, I open the trap door to let the bomb fly. Only it wasn’t a bomb. Some jackass had replaced my bum rocket with ass molasses. Cleaning that up wasn’t wiping. It was like daubing a bleeding wound.
It continued. It happened at 9 am at work. I was trying to get my second cup of coffee and was re-routed on my way to the kitchen. I never made it to the kitchen.
Just after lunch it happened again. And again. At three, it happened yet again. And then I left work to find something very interesting.
You see, after the fourth runny ass vomit, my anus was sore. Very sore, and throbbing. Throbbing loudly. I thought that I was the only one who could hear it, but I was wrong. There was a contingent of hippies outside dancing to the beat of the throbbing. They had thought it was a love in. They were wrong, so very wrong.
It’s now Tuesday, three days after I subjected myself to the colon cleanse. I finally have had a solid shit and I’m no longer afraid to fart.
Kids, there is a moral to this story.
Don’t be stupid like Uncle Spaz.
‘Nuff Said.
