Nothing will extinguish the light in your soul quite like realising, while in your most vulnerable moment bent over the toilet bowl heaving away your dinner (then your lunch. . . then your breakfast), that the warm sensation blossoming in the back of your lap means you have just shit your pants.
And you know that I would only make a grand statement like that if I could back it up.
Whether it was Norwalk, or a particularly energetic strain of food poisoning, I'll never know; what I do know for sure, is that I've never spent a night quite like I did last Saturday.
At 8pm, after finishing the keg set-up of a music video wrap party/rock show I asked the organisers if they'd mind terribly if I went home and splashed some water on my face--I was feeling a little, well, off. But I would certainly return before the party hit full swing--absolutely.
By 9pm, while curled up in the fetal position on my bathroom floor, I was beginning to doubt the sincerity of my promise to return to the party.
By 10pm, I was beginning to doubt whether I would live.
By 10:10pm, I had executed the simultaneous evacuation of my stomach and bowel, as described above. Needless to say, a humbling experience. Clearly there was something going wrong deep within me; something that, before the night was through, would test my humility and sense of humour well past their limits. As they say, it's always darkest before the dawn--and it was only 10:10pm, so we were barely into "evening".
On wobbly legs, I peeled off my trousers and drawers, threw them in the tub, and turned on the faucet; that was all I was willing to do at present to address the situation. I went to my bedroom, and had just finished redressing when I felt an unsettling movement--like an urgent need to have a bowel movement (which, those who have read ALL my posts, will understand is not an entirely unfamiliar feeling for me). Dashing off to the toilet with all deliberate speed, I arrived just in time to deliver what could best be described as "hot soup" from my ass into the toilet. It was then that the light in my soul, already aflicker from the earlier indignity, was snuffed out. With "hot soup" flowing free and unchecked from my ass, I barfed directly into the pantlegs of my fresh trousers. It happened so quickly, I had no time to react; but the second wave, which I felt welling within me, posed an interesting problem: which end do I face at the toilet?
And truly, with such vileness flowing so freely from one's face and one's behind, there is a completely different morass to wade through--namely, coming to terms with putting your face where your ass just unleashed a deluge of effluence. And what if your ass isn't done? Which would you rather clean up?
I chose to barf down my pantlegs again, for those dying of curiosity.
When the storm subsided, I also chose not to put on another pair of trousers and drawers--the laundry was really starting to pile up--fool me once, shame on you Norwalk; fool me twice, shame on me.
I also chose to climb into the tub, with it's delightful, easy-clean surface and cool touch.
Open letter to the next 40 years of my life: I dare you to provide a worse night.
I've done this too, but not with such elan. I aimed for my crotch without getting up from the loo.
i choose to rate this story the way ernest hemingway praised george plimpton's "out of my league". that is to say, "brilliantly concieved and superbly executed".
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