Tuesday, November 09, 2004

The House at Poop Corner (or Purging the McGriddles)

I was at the bookstore when it hit. I suppose that’s the good news – I had lots to read while my spleen, gall bladder and larynx were passing through me.

I warned myself that my recent gluttony would ultimately end badly, and today it did. I was standing there getting my jollies with the sketches in The Joy of Sex when my gut began to rumble and groan like a submarine sinking to the bottom of the Pacific. A minute later, there was a cramping feeling in my poopchute that told me I needed to find the men’s room immediately or face the prospect of waddling out of Barnes & Noble with squishy socks.

I found the bathroom, closed and latched the stall door and looked up to see a larger-than-life graffiti drawing of a penis going into an anatomically impossible vagina on the back of the door. The penis, which was three feet tall, was ornamented by two huge testicles and some funny gang words that I couldn’t decipher. I presume the message being sent was that the Barnes & Nobles Bloods have really big balls (and what better place to advertise that then here, alongside Dostoyevsky and Faulkner and Judy Blume). Their can be no pride that compares to a mother’s pride for her son’s huge gang member balls.

While my mind wandered through further analysis of the stall décor, the opposite end of my body was in a fight for its life. Each successive rectal heave softened my allegiance to McGriddle and mint chip ice cream and those damned bite-sized Milky Ways I’ve been eating every hour on the hour since the week before Halloween. My gut was telling me to chill the fuck out in no uncertain terms, and I had no choice but to listen – and stare at the Sharpied diagram of gang-ridden, elephantitus-ravaged testicles on the door in front of me. If there is a hell, it’s got to look something like this, perhaps with Robert Goulet pumping out of the overhead speakers and an empty roll in the toilet paper dispenser.

As the hours rolled on, I wondered how long Shiticus, the God of Dung, would make me suffer. I peered between my legs to inspect my own handiwork and I swear to God I saw one of my kidneys sitting there in the crapper. I contemplated fishing it out, but this was a public toilet used by gang members and I wasn’t about to put my hand in there, kidney or no kidney. My mama didn’t raise no stoopnagle.

The horror finally ended when my intestinal tract had nothing else to purge. As I washed my hands and exited the bathroom, I realized that I would have to honor the promises I made to Shiticus during my hour of peril (as in, “Please make it stop. I’ll do anything. Just make the poo-poo stop.”).

I promised never to ever eat another McGriddle, and I will honor that (but I won’t be happy about it).

I promised to throw away any and all candy in my domain, and I will honor that (but I might have another half-dozen Milky Way minis before I do).

I promised never to consume another dairy product as long as I live (or until such time as a cure for lactose intolerance is discovered), and I’m still thinking about honoring that one. Fifty-fifty chance.


At 3:36 PM, Blogger Fadedpaperdoll said...

It even has a name! Shiticus. Brilliant!

At 7:57 PM, Blogger drawdawn said...

Oh thank GOD I wasn't eating during that. lol

eww you just typed "poopchute" "rectal heave" and "Shiticus" (and uhh, now I just did too)

for all of our sakes - please no more McD's.

At 8:13 PM, Blogger honestyrain said...

what are gand members doing in a book store? was this a barnes and noble? doesn't sound like any barnes and noble i've been to.

and i WAS eating first time i tried to read this, thank you very much mr. daniel evans. let's not forget to add our warnings at the outset of possibly offensive blog entries. gosh sakes man. you nearly put me off my half eaten piece of cold pizza.

feta has dramatically less lactose than regular cheese. try that.

At 7:16 AM, Blogger girl from florida said...

Well... did you at least bring the Joy of Sex in with you to the bathroom? So your hour of misery could have been spent enriching your mind?

At 8:56 AM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

I for one am not sure how to feel about your knowledge of Judy Blume. Are males supposed to know about her?

Were you in the men's room reading "Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret?"

I'm feeling very unsettled about this Daniel.



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