April 3rd, 2003


My Annual Diarrhea Entry.

-- Warning, despite my efforts to keep it clean and sophisticated, this entry is still not recommended for the squeamish or the Amish.

I realize it’s been a while since I’d written something about defecation. Normally I leave that to the experts like naka_chan, but last night’s violent ordeal compelled me to write one myself.

For what it’s worth, I almost never get diarrhea. I’d always assumed that it was something that happened to people with inferior digestive systems, like the French, whereas I had a stomach that was stronger than most iron-based alloys, and the French.

Due to this belly-based arrogance, I ate without fear. I devoured river prawns in Cambodia. I chomped on unpeeled raw vegetables in the rural parts of China. I drank tap water in the Czech Republic. I dared R. Kelly to pee in my mouth too. And I never suffered any consequences.

But then last year, the Invincible Fortress of Tummy crumbled a bit. I got slammed with salmonella by an oven-roasted chicken. At Houston’s of all places. Had the squirts for almost a week. Then peace finally returned to the brown kingdom.

Well yesterday, around midnight, I felt a disturbing rumble in the intestinal area. In total disbelief, I ran over to the toilet just in time to unleash anal Armageddon on the city’s sewage system. Fifteen minutes later, Crapzilla. Another half hour, the A-poo-calypse (Man, I’m just loving the ca-ca wordplay tonight.).

Ended up spending half the night perched on the porcelain launching pad. Thank God my girlfriend had one of those cushiony toilet seats – although it would’ve been nice if it had handlebars too, you know, for leverage. Oh, and a bucket of ice, because my sphincter was wailing like Harvey Keitel at the end of "Bad Lieutenant."

Sitting on the can for the fourth or fifth time, I got to thinking about what I ate. I had a half-dozen raw oysters, and seared ahi tuna over at Ocean Avenue Seafood. I suppose the obvious culprit would be the oysters, those plump, briny bastards … and that’s the sad part of this story, because I love oysters.

Now, thanks to aversive conditioning, every time I even smell an oyster, my ass will explode. Maybe it’s God’s way of telling me to stop eating invertebrates, like the time I got hives after eating deep-fried crickets over at Typhoon.

The End.

[I just realized that this diarrhea tale wasn’t all that impressive, especially compared to the epics told by Rog and T. Man, those guys had some interesting stories in regards to angry colons. If you have a great one to share, please post it. Maybe I’ll compile a Diarrhea Anthology.]

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