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It was the day after Thanksgiving 2003. Belonging to a bifurcated family
(a.k.a. divorced parents) the holiday feast was scheduled for the
following Saturday and had yet to be unleashed upon my digestive system.
Having said this, the actions I am about to describe cannot be blamed on
Salmonella, E-Coli, botulism, trichinosis or any other viral or bacterial
ailment resulting from my family’s questionable cooking/hygiene practices.
To this day, the cause remains a mystery.
credit given to original author if known
Some background information is required to tell my tale of woe….
Flash backwards eight days:
My 1997 Honda Accord had turned 100,000 miles a few weeks prior and
promptly on schedule, the ‘Check Engine” light illuminated. After calling
the local dealership, Breakaway Honda (a.k.a. Break-It-Off-In-You) and
being advised of the $90.00 diagnostic fee, I took it to AutoZone for a
complimentary evaluation. The verdict: Error Code P0141. It turns out
that Error Code P0141 equates to a faulty secondary oxygen sensor. Steve,
the AutoZone dude, advised me that the change-out of said oxygen sensor
was relatively easy and a sensor could be purchased for the low price of
$231.99. Thinking I was being gouged by AutoZone, I called
Break-It-Off-In-You Honda and asked them how much they would charge. To
my surprise, they reply that the vehicle that has provided me years of
faithful and trouble free service was covered under a 150,000-mile
emission warranty and there would be no charge to replace the offending
sensor! One can imagine my relief. I schedule my car for service on the
day after Thanksgiving, first thing in the morning.
Fast forward to the day after Thanksgiving 2003:
As I have mentioned, I had not consumed 8000 calories the day before and
had drank only a nominal number of beers the evening prior to my
appointment at the Honda dealership service department. Thus, my
digestive system was not exposed to any unusual or harmful types or
quantities of food/drink.
I woke up on Friday around 7 am. After conducting the three S’s, I fired
up the Honda and made my way to the dealership. On my way, I purchased a
20-ounce Diet Mountain Dew, which I planned on enjoying while I waited for
my car to be restored to health. Little did I know, but I was headed for
my destiny. An unpleasant destiny.
After surrendering the keys to my car, I took the opportunity to stroll
the showroom gawking at the new cars and enjoy my Diet Mountain Dew.
Recalling the sequence of events, this was the last enjoyable activity
that I would be involved in for the next 30 hours. While gazing into the
’04 S2000 and admiring the leather seats and the too cool “Start” button,
my bowels began to rumble. Thinking nothing of it, I continued my tour of
the showroom and made my way to the hybrid Civic.
Here is where I began
to suspect something was wrong. My bowels began to constrict and the
watery feeling of an impending shit explosion made its way to my brain,
which responded appropriately by directing my legs toward the nearest
bathroom which happened to be the showroom which was one of two bathrooms.
On the way, I drained the last of the green colored Diet Mountain Dew
from the green tinted plastic bottle and dropped it in the trashcan in the
bathroom. Once in the bathroom, I selected a stall and began to make a
nest of toilet paper on the seat (I refuse to plant my ass on a public
toilet seat unprotected). With the nest properly assembled, I dropped my
trousers around my ankles and commenced bowel-evacuating activities.
Judging from the disproportional minimal amount of feces expelled versus
the watery feeling that triggered my pending shit explosion alarm, I
should have realized that the feces expelled was not the root cause of the
unrest in my digestive tract. Hindsight is wonderful, but useless.
After cleaning up and flushing the toilet, I made my way back to the
service department. I should mention that I began to feel progressively
worse during the next fifteen minutes. A thin sheen of sweat had appeared
on my forehead and I began to feel overheated and suddenly very tired.
Sitting down in the service lounge, I waited for the wave of discomfort to
pass. Pass it did not and I decided I drink of water might soothe my
The human body knows when something inside needs to be let out and is
capable of deciding on the most efficient avenue for expelling the
offending substance. Upon swallowing the last of the water delivered from
the water cooler, my body decided the contents of my stomach were no
longer welcome and began the time tested pre-determined sequence of events
required to empty my stomach. It began with an uncomfortable queasiness,
followed by a watering mouth and shortly thereafter, a mild feeling of
Normally, I am capable of quelling a mild urge to spew, but being in a
public area with no means for escape (as my Honda was currently under the
knife), I chose to proactively make my way to the nearest bathroom. This
would prove to be a mistake of epic proportions.
Every human knows that the urge to vomit is directly proportional to the
proximity of the one’s mouth to porcelain. As I approached the service
area bathroom, the time tested, pre-determined sequence of events required
to violently expel the contents of my stomach began to accelerate at an
ever-increasing rate with every step I took closer to the shitter. As you
can imagine, I began to walk faster and faster, compounding my predicament
as the closer I got to the shitter, the more I had to spew, the faster I
walked, the closer I got to the shitter, the more I had to spew (you get
Thankfully, the service area men’s room was unoccupied when I opened the
door. Had it not been, the occupant of the bathroom would have had no
doubt that a madman, hyped up on crack cocaine, had entered the room.
Operating purely on instinct and with one swift motion, I opened the door
to the nearest stall.
Simultaneously, my stomach muscles began to contract, my torso began to
bend to an angle suitable for puking and my vision registered a horrid
sight. That’s right folks, the toilet was stopped up: with shit. Brown
water, floaters and toilet paper filled my vision.
Powerless to stop the flow of vomit and unwilling to approach the shit
filled toilet, I watched helplessly as a column of my green vomit sprayed
the toilet, walls and floor of the bathroom. For approximately fifteen
seconds, my stomach emptied its contents on almost every surface within
range of my spew.
Finally, I regained control of my body. Yet I was not through with the dry
heaves. Understandably, I desired to exit the shit/vomit/toilet paper
fouled stall as rapidly as possible. Having been raised in a home with
indoor plumbing, I am conditioned to flush the toilet after any use.
Without thinking, I reach forward and flush the toilet (which proved to be
catastrophic mistake). As I am in the handicap stall dry heaving, I hear
the sound of splashing water. To my dis-belief, the shit-plugged toilet
was overflowing. Unable to flee the bathroom immediately, I was trapped,
caged by my dry heaves.
By the time I was in full control of my body, a lake of greenish brown
vomit/shit had formed between the exit and me. To escape the advancing
tide, I mustered all of the strength my vomit-ravaged body could, I jumped
over the lake, clearing the foul pool by mere inches!
Feeling much better, I returned to the customer lounge, purchased, and
drank a Diet Coke in a successful effort to soothe my stomach. Now that
my body was firmly under my control, I searched for, found an employee,
and informed him that a condition existed in the restroom that required
attention. He replied. “I have someone look into it.” I countered, “It’s
pretty serious, you should check on it immediately.”
Silently, I made my way to the service area where I found my Honda waiting
for my pickup and I made my escape from the scene.