My mom has told me not to be a potty mouth when I write, as she certainly would not appreciate hardly any of the standup humor on say, Comedy Central Radio.
But there comes a time where a man must make a stand. And for this jokester, it was now when he had to choose whether to pass on the opportunity that would otherwise bite him in the butt, for in front of and behind him is the Mother Lode. Or should I say load. Or “Mothers” of Invention.
Heh heh, heh heh, Butthead, look what I just “wrote.” (I reference YouTube and Saturday Night Live.) Knock it off Beavis, you social psychopath, as I’m now known as Dr. Buetteheade. Go find Stewart again and flush his last Winger T-shirt down the drain. You know, the one worn by the bass player. Or the SNL AI expert.
I digress. It started innocently enough, though not watching how much I ingested. First at Burrito Chip Ranchland. Then at German Gastro Gangbustas, and that last bit could be Italian, too .. My butt soon swelled to the volume level of three L.A. freeways with morning traffic merging, on their way to a Riders on the Storm concert meets the Highwaymen meets Grateful Dead. All this added to the literal and figurative traffic jam, as in the online ad. But the sun was setting low in the sky and I took the risk, thinking I would just stay up a little longer before bedtime and what can happen.
Yes, I was blocked up, just like the motorhead engine block on a vintage vehicle. This would be forever known as the historic plume of Hudson, touching to Emerald and Plum City, dead-ending at the end of the county?.
Also yes, as dusk set in I took a full three Dulcolax, then waited for the worst, which would not be the worst, if it came before nighty night and did its worst to my wurst. This will not be just pins dropping. Soon it was bombs away, then bedtime. But my belly was shrieking, gurgling too, like a schizoid cat being drawn and quartered. Couldn’t sleep. A few added sputtering sounds.
So without thinking, I did the unthinkable.
I took an Ambien.
(Granted, it was a generic knockoff, but for purposes of this story, and the name and potential-mind-you side effect recognition value, I will say Ambien. You know, sleep shit.)
Read the label, douche bag.
Soon the dreams came, of being marauded by mad Mexican tarantulas and woven into their web and hung out to dry. Then right before the fatal sting, when fear made push come to shove, it happened.
And the rest is history.
We’re talking real, lasting like papyrus danced on by a dino and not dwindling, (or one of those big, bad spiders) history. As in epic.
Leaping into action, but first pivoting on my butt, (bad idea), I went running or should I say sprinting for the bathroom. You know, too, what happens when you sprint. Your legs twist and churn. So I’m spurting from here to the rest of the county. Or like my rock star rebel idols who would never chance such a thing, hopefully not as far as England. Those “chaps” have no sense of humor. (Or laundry soap, I hear. Or is that France?) Or maybe reining in four-fifths of the solar system. (As only ample Ambien addled and thinking like such people use this fraction. They also think Pluto is lovely this time of year. Neptune, too. That would leave another plume.)
At least I am reasonably sure my spraying did not reach as far as the edge of the dining room table, I must add since we are talking about matters of … personal taste.
The toidy rim, like a drum gone rusty from decades of rimshots, was near unrecognizable. (Avocado Ish dish.) As were my shorts. After going, again, and flushing. I had the bright idea of washing the shorts by dropping them in the bowl and doing a swirly or two or three. But you know what happens with doing daunting Dulcolax. It comes back, again. So just go again. But wait a minute there are shorts in the bowl. So scramble. Ick, toss them in the tub. Swirl again. For several seconds. Repeat. As often as needed.
Twenty-seven minutes later …
Rinse cycle, or so I made it, still not fairing fully functionally. Drain the water out of the tub. Repeat. Untill the last specks spin down the spigot.
Then still fog-brained, and so thinking, and racing against time, so I could grab some needed sleep, I quickly washed my feet in my newsly cleansed toidy. Like they do in England. When there is laundry soap.Â
And check the damages. Hmm, not bad.
Wait, just a couple of skid marks, like those made by a whirling dervish of a drag racer driven by a crazy wily coyote hemped up on acid.
So get out the carpet cleaner. Do you know what happens when you take even just a bit of poo and scrub it back and forth?
I was going to run this post by my doctor, not for approval, or their personal approval, just a baseline bit of medical clarity?
But don’t read it mom! And don’t look Ethyl! She might need alcohol. Dare I say it, there’s in front of me a grimy man with a bulge in his shorts! And not in front. So not necessarily the Trump kind.
OK, much of this story is brutally honest, although highly embellished.
So now my PG-13 rating is more like ZZZZ.