So my buddy grilled some spareribs on the 4th; and there was a bunch of leftovers. Since we hosted the barbecue, I naturally claimed some of said leftovers for myself. Of course, I hadn't had any that day either, so I was eager to try some later. Well, Sunday I heated a half rack up for a late breakfast/early lunch treat. An hour later, I was pissing out my butt.

Let me tell you, bad pork just doesn't fool around any more. I mean, it just wouldn't let up; literally, I was shitting so hard I was sweating. For at least three hours I couldn't be more than a room away from the toilet. Eventually, my butthole was hurting so bad that I just refused the urge to shit anymore. I just clenched it; deciding that I was going to force my body to hold it in until the lower intestine got off it's ass and started absorbing water. I guess I held it for about an hour, when the wife arrived.

She's a nurse, so she knows a crapton more about how a body works than I could ever pretend to. When she walked into the living room and found me curled into the fetal position biting a wooden spoon and covering my ass with both hands; she advised me to just take some Immodium. Unfortunately, you have to take the pills after having a 'movement'.

(Note: I hate that some professionals and literature refer to them as 'movements'. This word, for me, conjures up maybe a ballet, or a couple minutes of Vivaldi. What I was doing was shitting. Spraying raw sewage out of my butt is neither graceful, beautiful, nor moving - ergo, it is not a movement. Let's not be flowery when describing the decidedly unflowery aspects of the human experience.)

So I crawl back into the bathroom, and release what the flood gates had been holding back. It hurt so bad. By mid evening, my a-hole felt like 100 microscopic miners had been filing away at it with 100 tiny rasps. It hurt to sit, it hurt to stand; it was a bad day to be my butthole. After I finished, I went straight into the shower. I mean, six hours of the squirts makes a guy feel a little dirty.

After the shower, I took the meds; and my bowels haven't so much as quivered since. We're talking easily 24 hours without a #2 here; and I've swung to the other side of the panic pendulum. No longer do I worry that I may die on a toilet; I do, however, worry that I may die from poop backup. Of course, compounding this problem is my reluctance to do anything to encourage a deuce; for fear that it may lead to another bout of those uncontrollable, violently powerful, and immensely painful shits.

Posted by: shank at 03:51 PM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
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