A LITTLE DAB'LL DO YA
Lets face facts.
Like most people, I have an overriding fear that my intestinal tract is tragically backed up with all manner of undigested pot pouri, which is an endless factory for free radicals and other cancer causing unmentionables being pumped into my body on a daily basis.
I want to be part of the solution, not the problem, so I do my bit to actively address this situation.
So when I came across "5 DAY ACAI BERRY CLEANSE" at the local DOLLAR GENERAL store, my attention was piqued. Not only was the packaging in an alluring blend of deep reds and purples, which have always captivated and consoled me, but the tag line, accentuated by an unattached asterisk, clearly read, "Flush away pounds of backed-up matter clogging your digestive system!"
On the packaging there were an assortment of berries, which I can only assume to be the fabled ACAI, which I recently learned was pronounced "ah sigh ee", instead of the more phonetically feasible "ah cai". And what appear to be hollowed out blueberries and grapes.
All of which are known for their heavy anti-oxidant properties.
This was all ballast, however, since the box already had me at "backed up-matter clogging your digestive system".
It was as if they did a focus group of my soul to ensure my shopping satisfaction.
They even tastefully euphemised it, even though I would have taken the cruder, if more blunt, "make you shit out all the stuff what crammed up in there".
If you even marginally know me, the subject of my bowels is something you cannot avoid. Mostly because they are tempermental, mecurial breed. I use the plural loosely, for more for a grammatical function here.
What with my lactose intolerance and all, I should be completely untroubled with the notion of my gastrointestinal tract reaching any degree of gridlock.
Not to mention the fact that Irritable Bowel Syndrome is rumored to run in my family.
Intolerance and irritability. Apparently my asshole is an unabashed Klansman.
Yet I remain concerned.
With this simple supplement, I can simply wash down a few pills, and soothe my worried mind.
It evens mentions five day on the cover, which for some reason reads well with me, since it subliminally urges restraint and moderation, which would turn off the habitual users of over the counter colonics, be they bored housewives, anorexics, or your garden variety ass obsessives.
I can't imagine some weirdo that "accidently" sat on a bowling trophy, six to eight times the previous evening coming across this product and deeming it worth an investigative box flip around to observe the ingredients. Which means a diminished proximity from their E. coli stained fingers leaving residue on my purchase.
Back in the car I quickly scarfed down two of the pills and flushed them down with some Powerade. The box said two every morning, two every evening, but by Odin's beard, I didn't know about this earlier, so diving in headfirst seemed the right thing to do.
Hours pass and I decide to walk to the local convenient store to purchase some cigarettes before going out that night. I am only a few paces from my front yard when it hits me. Silent, silky fingers have turned over a gastrointestinal hourglass in me, and I know that I have about two and a half minutes to be sitting shiva on porcelain before bad trouble.
The obvious, and undeniable results of the efficacy of this product should have been enough foreshadowing for me to take heed, but if time has taught me one thing, it is if I am endowed with any level of genius, it is never, ever, under any circumstances, learning from any mistake that could eventually get in the way of a good story.
Especially considering how good I felt after. Fuck the weight on your shoulders, if you can shake off the hanging albatross heavy in your lower parts, it makes Atlas' load look featherweight in comparison.
I felt like a new man. One that would avoid all you can eat sushi restaurants on the wrong side of the tracks.
So popping these little potentially combustible lovlies before my normal ten hour shift at work seemed like it was not only safe, but damn near compulsory.
The worst had to be behind me. Literally.
My body was sure to have recalibrated itself to accommodate this process. I am sure it had read the box about it being five days, max, and would at least know that it would be over soon enough.
All was well enough. Nature called early on. I answered.
Nothing to be alarmed about. Plus I got to shit at work, which is one of my guilty pleasures, since technically they are paying me to do so since I am on the clock.
That is until after lunch. Maybe it was the guacamole. Maybe it was a planetary alignment unheeded from time unrecorded. But what happened next was as devastating as it was, somehow, unexpected.
There I was, in the bathroom, urinating away, without a care in the world. Urine looks pretty clear. Hydration levels could be a bit better.
Then I get to that moment that makes every trip to a public bathroom a little awkward.
The obligatory stall fart.
I am not sure how it works with you ladies, but for the fellas, there is sometimes this moment, near the tail end of a number one, where a fart becomes imminent. If you are a decent, respectable member of society, you try to mask this, by coughing or flushing the toilet prematurely, anything than to just start blasting away there half a foot from another unsuspecting, innocent bystander.
This windsong isnt merely cosmetic. It has an unbreakable, pay or play contract with your bladder. If you don't, there will be a section of your urine that simply will not come out of the dressing room for the encore. It is the anti Bruce Springstein of micturation.
Seeing as how this was a Sunday, and the bathroom was clear, I just let it go.
Where's the harm?
The harm, gentle reader, manifested itself forthright.
I had, in course of a few, unretrievable seconds, shat myself at work.
The realization level at key events in life have a bit of a time delay, like the audio feed for live network television, or the sound trailing fighter planes at sub sonic speed.
The mind cannot, or simply will not, deal with the cold, hard, inescapable here and now.
It pleads, futile and impotent as an octogenarian Louisiana senator, against the cold hard truth.
No.
No no no no.
This isn't real. This is not here. Now. Or me.
This is not happening. Or at least someone else, who isn't me, somewhere I have never heard of, is standing there with what feels like a few nibblets of creamed corn leaking out of his asshole.
Some dirty, shameful person, who no doubt is being dealt a much deserved karmic one-two punch combo for a unredeemable crimes to all humanity.
Seconds later, several shameful, soul searching seconds later, I realize I just can't abracadabra my way out of this fix. No amount of astral projection will ever, EVER, leave you with a clean pair of drawers if you done shat em.
Nuts to turning water into wine. If Jesus wanted to jumpstart his career from bowling alley to stadium seating when he was cutting his teeth in the miracle department, he would have left that water to wine bullshit with the Essenses, and turned shit stained underpants to winter fresh.
All the Sanhedrins, Pontius Pilots, and Mel Gibsons in the world couldn't have gotten him up on that cross if he did.
I had to move fast. But, paradoxically, not too fast, to the nearest stall. Scratch that, to the handicapped stall. That bad mofo has its own sink. Which I assumed I would need easy access to. While clutching my buttcheeks tightly, but delicately together, I attempted to clutch whatever just suddenly exited my asshole with the gentleness of a mother cradling her new born child as I quickly zipped up and saddled my way to the stall like a bow legged gunslinger. With rickets. At high noon.
Expecting the worst I threw my pants down to survey the damage.
Mercifully it wasn't as bad as I initially feared. But lets face it, shitting yourself is kind of horseshoe and hand grenade situation. Close doesn't count.
There were a few, medium sized tadpole stains. All my time off for the rest of the year is already accounted for. I could go home, with valid excuse. Nobody is going to make you work with shit stains in your pants. Thats not good for anyone.
The collateral damage is not the kind of thing you want to live with.
"Why you going home?"
"Uhh...not feeling well..."
"You seem fine! What are you trying to pull?"
I wouldn't be able to handle myself under this fierce interrogation. I would let slip that I soiled myself, and, well, thats it. Some things you cannot live down. Ever. It would be on my tombstone.
So damage control was in order. I liquid soaped the shit out of some paper towels and soaked out my shame as best I could. All I had to do was sit there, head down, buttocks clenched like a miser's fist, and hope for the best.
When I told friends this last night, they asked why I didn't simply throw the underpants away. This baffled me. First, if you go into a bathroom, there's nothing to report, then you see me, and nobody but me come out, then all of a sudden, whats this, the bathroom suddenly has that late night bus stop ambiance, and lo and behold, theys drawers in the trash can, the finger to point is obvious.
Two, I was able to maintain for the most part. What if part two is the real shock and awe situation? The underwear disposal needs to be a last resort. You don't throw out the safety net after the first swing on the trapeze.
There is a method to the madness here.
Luckily the floor is relatively clear on Sundays and most people sit a safe sniffing distance from anything that might linger. And I had the next day off.
To collect myself, to sit and ponder the arcane and near ninja stealth threats that I am sitting on.
Like most people, I have an overriding fear that my intestinal tract is tragically backed up with all manner of undigested pot pouri, which is an endless factory for free radicals and other cancer causing unmentionables being pumped into my body on a daily basis.
I want to be part of the solution, not the problem, so I do my bit to actively address this situation.
So when I came across "5 DAY ACAI BERRY CLEANSE" at the local DOLLAR GENERAL store, my attention was piqued. Not only was the packaging in an alluring blend of deep reds and purples, which have always captivated and consoled me, but the tag line, accentuated by an unattached asterisk, clearly read, "Flush away pounds of backed-up matter clogging your digestive system!"
On the packaging there were an assortment of berries, which I can only assume to be the fabled ACAI, which I recently learned was pronounced "ah sigh ee", instead of the more phonetically feasible "ah cai". And what appear to be hollowed out blueberries and grapes.
All of which are known for their heavy anti-oxidant properties.
This was all ballast, however, since the box already had me at "backed up-matter clogging your digestive system".
It was as if they did a focus group of my soul to ensure my shopping satisfaction.
They even tastefully euphemised it, even though I would have taken the cruder, if more blunt, "make you shit out all the stuff what crammed up in there".
If you even marginally know me, the subject of my bowels is something you cannot avoid. Mostly because they are tempermental, mecurial breed. I use the plural loosely, for more for a grammatical function here.
What with my lactose intolerance and all, I should be completely untroubled with the notion of my gastrointestinal tract reaching any degree of gridlock.
Not to mention the fact that Irritable Bowel Syndrome is rumored to run in my family.
Intolerance and irritability. Apparently my asshole is an unabashed Klansman.
Yet I remain concerned.
With this simple supplement, I can simply wash down a few pills, and soothe my worried mind.
It evens mentions five day on the cover, which for some reason reads well with me, since it subliminally urges restraint and moderation, which would turn off the habitual users of over the counter colonics, be they bored housewives, anorexics, or your garden variety ass obsessives.
I can't imagine some weirdo that "accidently" sat on a bowling trophy, six to eight times the previous evening coming across this product and deeming it worth an investigative box flip around to observe the ingredients. Which means a diminished proximity from their E. coli stained fingers leaving residue on my purchase.
Back in the car I quickly scarfed down two of the pills and flushed them down with some Powerade. The box said two every morning, two every evening, but by Odin's beard, I didn't know about this earlier, so diving in headfirst seemed the right thing to do.
Hours pass and I decide to walk to the local convenient store to purchase some cigarettes before going out that night. I am only a few paces from my front yard when it hits me. Silent, silky fingers have turned over a gastrointestinal hourglass in me, and I know that I have about two and a half minutes to be sitting shiva on porcelain before bad trouble.
The obvious, and undeniable results of the efficacy of this product should have been enough foreshadowing for me to take heed, but if time has taught me one thing, it is if I am endowed with any level of genius, it is never, ever, under any circumstances, learning from any mistake that could eventually get in the way of a good story.
Especially considering how good I felt after. Fuck the weight on your shoulders, if you can shake off the hanging albatross heavy in your lower parts, it makes Atlas' load look featherweight in comparison.
I felt like a new man. One that would avoid all you can eat sushi restaurants on the wrong side of the tracks.
So popping these little potentially combustible lovlies before my normal ten hour shift at work seemed like it was not only safe, but damn near compulsory.
The worst had to be behind me. Literally.
My body was sure to have recalibrated itself to accommodate this process. I am sure it had read the box about it being five days, max, and would at least know that it would be over soon enough.
All was well enough. Nature called early on. I answered.
Nothing to be alarmed about. Plus I got to shit at work, which is one of my guilty pleasures, since technically they are paying me to do so since I am on the clock.
That is until after lunch. Maybe it was the guacamole. Maybe it was a planetary alignment unheeded from time unrecorded. But what happened next was as devastating as it was, somehow, unexpected.
There I was, in the bathroom, urinating away, without a care in the world. Urine looks pretty clear. Hydration levels could be a bit better.
Then I get to that moment that makes every trip to a public bathroom a little awkward.
The obligatory stall fart.
I am not sure how it works with you ladies, but for the fellas, there is sometimes this moment, near the tail end of a number one, where a fart becomes imminent. If you are a decent, respectable member of society, you try to mask this, by coughing or flushing the toilet prematurely, anything than to just start blasting away there half a foot from another unsuspecting, innocent bystander.
This windsong isnt merely cosmetic. It has an unbreakable, pay or play contract with your bladder. If you don't, there will be a section of your urine that simply will not come out of the dressing room for the encore. It is the anti Bruce Springstein of micturation.
Seeing as how this was a Sunday, and the bathroom was clear, I just let it go.
Where's the harm?
The harm, gentle reader, manifested itself forthright.
I had, in course of a few, unretrievable seconds, shat myself at work.
The realization level at key events in life have a bit of a time delay, like the audio feed for live network television, or the sound trailing fighter planes at sub sonic speed.
The mind cannot, or simply will not, deal with the cold, hard, inescapable here and now.
It pleads, futile and impotent as an octogenarian Louisiana senator, against the cold hard truth.
No.
No no no no.
This isn't real. This is not here. Now. Or me.
This is not happening. Or at least someone else, who isn't me, somewhere I have never heard of, is standing there with what feels like a few nibblets of creamed corn leaking out of his asshole.
Some dirty, shameful person, who no doubt is being dealt a much deserved karmic one-two punch combo for a unredeemable crimes to all humanity.
Seconds later, several shameful, soul searching seconds later, I realize I just can't abracadabra my way out of this fix. No amount of astral projection will ever, EVER, leave you with a clean pair of drawers if you done shat em.
Nuts to turning water into wine. If Jesus wanted to jumpstart his career from bowling alley to stadium seating when he was cutting his teeth in the miracle department, he would have left that water to wine bullshit with the Essenses, and turned shit stained underpants to winter fresh.
All the Sanhedrins, Pontius Pilots, and Mel Gibsons in the world couldn't have gotten him up on that cross if he did.
I had to move fast. But, paradoxically, not too fast, to the nearest stall. Scratch that, to the handicapped stall. That bad mofo has its own sink. Which I assumed I would need easy access to. While clutching my buttcheeks tightly, but delicately together, I attempted to clutch whatever just suddenly exited my asshole with the gentleness of a mother cradling her new born child as I quickly zipped up and saddled my way to the stall like a bow legged gunslinger. With rickets. At high noon.
Expecting the worst I threw my pants down to survey the damage.
Mercifully it wasn't as bad as I initially feared. But lets face it, shitting yourself is kind of horseshoe and hand grenade situation. Close doesn't count.
There were a few, medium sized tadpole stains. All my time off for the rest of the year is already accounted for. I could go home, with valid excuse. Nobody is going to make you work with shit stains in your pants. Thats not good for anyone.
The collateral damage is not the kind of thing you want to live with.
"Why you going home?"
"Uhh...not feeling well..."
"You seem fine! What are you trying to pull?"
I wouldn't be able to handle myself under this fierce interrogation. I would let slip that I soiled myself, and, well, thats it. Some things you cannot live down. Ever. It would be on my tombstone.
So damage control was in order. I liquid soaped the shit out of some paper towels and soaked out my shame as best I could. All I had to do was sit there, head down, buttocks clenched like a miser's fist, and hope for the best.
When I told friends this last night, they asked why I didn't simply throw the underpants away. This baffled me. First, if you go into a bathroom, there's nothing to report, then you see me, and nobody but me come out, then all of a sudden, whats this, the bathroom suddenly has that late night bus stop ambiance, and lo and behold, theys drawers in the trash can, the finger to point is obvious.
Two, I was able to maintain for the most part. What if part two is the real shock and awe situation? The underwear disposal needs to be a last resort. You don't throw out the safety net after the first swing on the trapeze.
There is a method to the madness here.
Luckily the floor is relatively clear on Sundays and most people sit a safe sniffing distance from anything that might linger. And I had the next day off.
To collect myself, to sit and ponder the arcane and near ninja stealth threats that I am sitting on.