“Just add Water.”
After 8 days of a brutal stomach virus, I’m considering tattooing this phrase on my sphincter.
(right next to the “If you can read this, you’re too close” one)
About a week and a half ago, my daily schedule changed.
It went from this:
1) Wake up at 5 a.m. and get ready
2) Go to work
3) Have coffee
4) Take my morning poo (induced by #3)
6) Go home
1) Wake up at 3 a.m due to GURGLING
2) Explosively poo the equivalent volume of the Bering Sea
3) Keep pooing...mother of God...am I dying?! What is that, a boat?
4) Stay up through alarm...wife is mad...I have not sprayed air freshener...wall is stained
5) Drive to work VERY quickly so not to poo in car
6) WHAT?! MORE POO?!?
7) Have coff..
8) AAH!! POO!
11) Have lunc…POO!! (eat lunch in stall)
12) Work. No, no…nevermind…I have to poo again
13) Go home quickly. Pull to side of road and poo
14) Say “hi” to kids as I rush past them to the bathroom
15) Repeat steps 1 – 14.
I have no idea what I ate, or what God I pissed off to cause this.
Regardless, my days were pretty much set to the above schedule.
On the bright side, since I’m a salaried employee, I pretty much got paid to crap all day.
Actually…it was less like crap and more like the contents of Lake Eerie.
Then there’s the down side to all of this.
When your butt is pretty much flushing water out of it’s little brown gate every 15 minutes…
…it begins to feel like you’ve dipped your sphincter in a jar of jalapenos.
(don’t ask me how I know this)
I finally got the courage to make a doctor’s appointment to try to figure out whether or not I was dying, had Crohn’s disease, or was simply itching for someone to examine my cornhole (again).
Instead of my doctor, I got his assistant.
Who better to discuss my explosive diarrhea with than a woman?
Maybe I should have her refill my Levitra prescription while I’m here.
Doctor: “Oh…you have an irritable bowel AND a non-functioning penis? Well aren’t you quite the catch!”
Anyway…I can tell she’s embarrassed to talk to me about my continual poo antics, as much as I’m embarrassed to discuss it.
Doctor: “Well…um…how often are you going a day?”
Me (averting her stare): “I like beans.”
Doctor: “I know it’s not comfortable to talk about, but I need to know. How many times?”
Me: “I have a degree in architecture. I like steak. The color blue makes me happy.”
(this goes on for ten minutes)
Me: “I don’t know…like, 5 or six times?”
Doctor: “Okay. Well…we don’t really consider it chronic until you’re going at least 8 times a day.”
Me: “Who the Hell has time for that?”
How do you go to the bathroom 8 f*cking times a day?
What the f*ck are you eating? Elephants?
Doctor: “Well..I think it’s viral…but we should probably get a sample.”
A sample of my poo.
This is going just swimmingly.
I start pulling my pants down…
Doctor (frantic): “No..no…we won’t do it here…”
Be that way.
It’s okay, though…because I really, really didn’t want to poop in a cup.
Doctor: “Go to the lab and pick up a kit."
Me: "A shit kit? That's funny. It rhymes."
Doctor (sighing): "..then you can return it to them when you have the sample.”
Me: “I’d rather eat my own eye.”
So, I left the doctor’s office with nothing…
...other than the satisfaction of knowing that I spent the last twenty minutes of my life discussing my poop with a woman.
On the bright side, the virus is finally gone. I’m back to solid smash and normal driving habits.
On the down side, I forgot to refill my Levitra.
I should give her a call.
I think she digs me.