Slap & Tickle

Sick as a dog…

It’s good to be back at work. Hard for me to believe I would ever say something like that, but today it’s true. I think I’m always happy to return to work after I’ve been sick.

And was I sick yesterday… So bad, it could have been a Stephen King novel: Shitstorm.

It started as a normal morning, but quickly got ugly. I got up, stretched, took a whiz, and went to the gym. As I arrived at the gym, I was attacked by some of the worst gas ever expelled by a human being. Man, did it stink! Big, loud, smelly farts. Ahh… what a way to start the day!

I squeezed the last one out just before going in, had a decent workout without any… er, interruptions.

I had to make a quick stop at Larry & Shawn’s to feed their cats and fish, so I drove to their place with every window down. I could barely see through my tears. These monsters were heinous!

As I rode the elevator to the condo, my body sent me an urgent message that most of the gas was gone and the intense pressure that was building on my ass was not planning on staying in much longer. I kept thinking of Dr. Evil saying “hot, liquid MAG-ma.”

I dashed inside, stumbled over the cat, ran into the bathroom, dropped trou and… “oh dear God…” I won’t discuss the consistency, but let me just say that I physically shuddered several times and found myself shaking a bit afterwards.

The cats were clamoring at the door of the bathroom, desperately trying to get in and play, but when the stench crept over to them, they cried out and ran. When I emerged from the bathroom, both cats were in hiding.

I lit some matches, but it didn’t seem to help. I began to worry that the smoke alarm was going to go off. I think the firefighters could handle the smoke, but what I left in that bathroom no human could stand. I admit, I did worry that the gas I expelled, along with the matches, could have resulted in a nasty fire, but I was willing to risk it (after all, it was not my condo).

Thinking the worst was over, I left the defenseless cats to fend for themselves and made my way home. Getting home, I made a quick dash to the bathroom, where again, I shuddered numerous times. I began to wonder if I was sick or ate something terribly foul (sadly, I did not get laid over the weekend, so I didn’t eat anything like that). Going over the previous day’s meals, I could not think of anything that would make me so ill.

I flushed, washed my hands and started to brush my teeth when… ohmygodnotagain! I jumped back to the toilet. I thought of calling in sick, if only I could get off the toilet. New book title: The Dump That Wouldn’t Stop.

After a few minutes, I was okay and decided I would go in to work… and then it hit again.

The rest of my morning went something like this:

I called in sick.

Thought about lying down.

Instead, I went to the bathroom.

I turned on the TV and sat on the couch.

Immediately, I got up and went to the bathroom.

I watched TV for 10 minutes.

I got up and went to the bathroom…

I watched TV for 15 minutes.

I got up and went to the bathroom…

I watched TV for 20 minutes.

I got up and went to the bathroom…

I watched TV for 20 minutes.

I got up and went to the bathroom…

This pattern continued for a few hours.

I finally napped a bit (all that getting up and down wore me out) and awoke to the urge to… yep, go to the bathroom. How much food is in my system at any one time? Admittedly, there was not much there on the last few trips, but it always felt so urgent. I had to go. Jesus, the book should be called “Ass of Fury” (“Hell hath no fury like an ass spewing fire!”)

I ate some oatmeal, hoping it would calm my stomach, but an hour later, I was in the bathroom, going at full force. (Foreign title to the book: Dump de la Muerta.”)

Normally, on days I’m sick, I watch a little TV and try to get things done around the house. You know, little things that have been put off, like cleaning, etc. I was running to the bathroom so much, I was worried that if I took the garbage out, I would get half way there and be forced to run back, ass ablaze!

I was a prisoner of my bowels! Hey, that the best title for a book yet. Maybe I could write a new Harry Potter novel: Harry Potter and the Prisoner of the Bowels. “Quick, Harry,” Hermoine shouted, “before he fires off another one of his Slytherian Bombs!” Better yet, a love story, Mrs. Ludicrous: The Prisoner of Bowels. “Dear me,” Sarah Ludicrous sighed as she sent forth a plume of gas so foul that dogs miles away began to bark, “I am most distressed.” I fear I could go on, so I shan’t.

The rest of the day and night was pretty uneventful (both excitement and bowel-wise), I watched some TV and waited for Larry and Shawn to come by to get the keys to their place, so I could get to sleep.

I think it was an old Jewish recipe that saved my soul, cured my bowels and preserved my nostrils: a nice bowl of chicken soup.

“Chicken Soup for the Bowels,” now there’s a good book title.