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Ho Chi Mihn's Revenge Death Shit and why I'll never again fuck with a Vietnamese cook...

Years ago, my partner and I stepped into a local Vietnamese restaurant during a lull in the action and ordered lunch. He had the Lo Mein (OK, so they SAY they're a Chinese place, but the cook used to be ARVN, so it's a Viet joint), I had the Mongolian Beef. Now, being the redneck I am and half cajun to boot, I'll eat things so spicy that they'll kill any damnyankee who even dares look in their general direction. So it's no real suprise that, when asked by the cook how spicy I wanted my food, I casually leaned over the counter, gave him my best "Menacing Redneck Leer"(tm) and replied: "Hurt me.".

My colon still twinges to this day when I retell this story. It was the darkest moment in our relationship and it may never forgive me. I fully expect it to leave me for a Vegan someday.When our food came out, we paid and left. But not before I noticed the look on the cook's face. His mouth said: "You come back soon.", his expression said: "If you survive, fatboy!".

Yeah, it was hot, no denying that. It even forced beads of sweat to exude themselves from my brow and a gusher of snot to run from my nose, but nothing was particularily amiss, hell, my momma's chili was worse. So I quaffed down a few Dr. Peppers, smoked a butt and settled into my rack for the night. The next morn, I awoke, took my morning piss, donned my uniform and began my day.

It hit sometime around noon. There was what can only be described as a tortured, garbled scream from my gut that actually attracted the attention of my partner (a delightfully tasteless bastard in his own respect) who, without even waiting to see the panicked look on my face said: "Don't worry, man, I'll find you a shitter, just hold on.".

We whipped into the parking lot of a Hardware store and I waddled in, sphicterlock tight but fading fast, the holocaust in my tortured colon growing in intensity. The girl at the counter recoiled as I speared her with my fevered, bloodshot gaze and asked three prophetic words: "Where's yer shitter?". I was motioned down a narrow hall to my destination, my Waterloo, if you will, to where I was to do battle with the omnipotent, omnicient, universally-feared "Ho Chi Mihn's Revenge Death Shit".

My pants came down, my shirt went up, my cheeks hit the blissfully cool porcelain and my tortured sphincter lost it's will to fight the rear-guard action simultaniously.Basically, I shit lava. Red. Hot. Glowing. Sulfurous lava.Had I possessed hemorrhoids at the time, they certainly could not have survived this onslaut. There were no grogans to speak of, just one long stream of Vietnamese pain gushing from my brutalized starfish like a conveyor belt out of Hell itself. As my eyebrows arched up in complete suprize at the level of pain being generated in my nether regions, my hands shot out and my fingernails dug ten long furrows in the roughly finished plywood walls.

A scream eminated from the bathroom to frighten the customers and cause mothers to clap hands over their babe's ears."EEEEEEEAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH SHHIIIIIIIIITTTT I'M GONNA KILL THAT SLOPEHEADED MOTHERFUCKER!!!!! EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!"

I made many more sounds before the rectal gusher subsided, but they were largely unintelligable. When it was over, as I lay there against the wall, panting like a cheap prison bitch after an all-night gangbang, and I made my vow: I will never, EVER again piss off a Vietnamese cook.

Doc

credit given to original author if known

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