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 Nu-Lax: The Natural Way To Wreck Your AssPosted 06.09.2005 by MegaDump (100)
"The longer the faecal matter stays in the large bowel, the drier it gets."
-- Nu-Lax (Wise Poo Oracle). I've noticed that when you take a Coke bottle onto a plane, the pressure of the expanding gas inside makes the plastic bottle go rock solid after takeoff. If you open the bottle to drink while on the plane, the bottle will suck in on itself upon landing. On my flight to Melbourne from Adelaide, Australia, this phenomenon is exactly what I felt happening in my intestines. Several minutes after takeoff, I felt an enormous pressure in my guts. Not close enough to the sphincter to be considered farts, mind you. The gas hadn't got that far down yet; but it was extremely uncomfortable. This pain stuck with me until, you guessed it, the plane landed, and the intestinal gases were back at ground-level pressure. I'm sure that if I HAD farted on the plane, the resultant pressure change in my bowels upon landing would have caused them to suck in and possibly make my sphincter swallow itself. Just like the Coke bottle... because Coke bottles have sphincters. What a perfect analogy! Anyway, after the pain went away, I dismissed it all as a big joke -- "Hah! The pain is gone! I'm free! It was nothing!" I merrily went and collected my luggage. Unfortunately, it was merely the beginning of my ordeal. I usually get a little constipated after a plane trip, but this was ridiculous: after four days since arriving at my brother's in Melbourne, I still had not felt the need to poop. Not even the presence of one. I had been eating normal meals, three times a day, and not those pansy-sized woman portions either. On the fifth day I could feel the presence of a turd, and it was worrying me. Not quite prairie-dogging, but it was definitely there. I finally decided to admit to my sister-in-law that we were going to have to buy some Metamucil because I was log-jammed. I thought that after five days I'd need a corkscrew to pop that thing out of my rectum, but I'm told that's not quite socially acceptable. I felt like a pregnant woman overdue to give birth -- I couldn't wait anymore. This creature growing inside me had worn out its welcome, and it was now time for an induced labor -- before it got TOO big to leave. When we got to the supermarket, all they had was a massive fifteen dollar silo of Metamucil. We decided that I wouldn't need anywhere near that much, so we bought what I thought was a novel, hippie-style "natural" remedy. It was much smaller and cheaper, and it definitely worked... a little too well. Firstly, I think I owe it to the manufacturers of this stuff to mention its name. It's an Australian product called Nu-Lax. It contains a laxative herb called senna, with figs, pears, apricots, and other fruits all mashed into a hideous paste that actually looks like a firm brick of poop. Really, it's just a very firm fruit jam. I'll always remember it because, hilariously, the side of the packet reads: Directions: Take one teaspoonful before retiring. If too firm, knead until pliable. If still too firm, warm in the oven. I've mentioned this to a few people, but most don't find it funny. Am I the only one who sees the humor in this? Hopefully my fellow PoopReporters will have a more finely developed sense of humor than those people. 
Anyway. The directions clearly stated that ONE teaspoonful before bedtime was all that was required. Since I'm a guy who likes to see results right away, I took one HEAPING teaspoonful immediately upon opening. I swallowed it easily. "Pfff, one spoonful," I thought, "I barely felt it go down! Surely, one spoonful can't have that much of an effect." After several hours with no apparent movements, I was pissed off -- "Goddamned hippies and their natural remedy crap!" I took the next step: another half a spoonful. And then another. Finally, by late afternoon, it happened. I discreetly abandoned my twin toddler nephews and hid in the toilet. The contractions had begun. The thick, hairless gorilla's arm that was this poop stretched my anus to its capacity. Fortunately, it was as though the entire surface of this turd had been coated in lubricant. Agonizingly solid though it was, it slid out in one giant movement with little pushing. How such a huge turd moved with so little effort boggled my mind, but I felt as though my entire intestine had collapsed as soon as the monster was unleashed. The relief was incredible. It was utterly odorless and practically standing in the bowl, defiant to the last. Realizing almost no wiping was needed, I beat the monster with the toilet brush to teach it a lesson (and to ensure that the weight of the water would be able to move the behemoth). Though I was walking like a bow-legged cowboy, that was it; the ordeal was over. Or so I thought. It was around midnight when the first wave of diarrhea hit me. I'm sure anyone who's had too much laxative (as I now knew I had) knows this feeling. The initial pain in my stomach was agonizing, literally making me curl up into the fetal position wanting to cry. It lasted several minutes, during which I was tossing and turning, clutching at my stomach and whispering to myself, "Dear God, help me please!" Suddenly, amidst all this, there was poop ready for unloading. I use the term "poop" loosely, as holding it in felt like trying to keep water from spilling out from between my fingers. I ran quietly to the toilet and blew out the most horrendous load of hot liquid turd ever. It sounded like someone pouring a bucket of water into the toilet, coupled with bubbly, sputtering airy farts -- airy, I guess because my sphincter had been so torturously stretched earlier. I didn't even have time to muffle the noise with a few layers of toilet paper on the water like I usually do. I sat there afterwards in a fearful, stunned silence as I wondered if anyone had heard me. This silence soon turned to horrified shock and nausea as the scent of the malodorous mess of mustard-like magma slapped me across the face. A burning, acidic smell tortured my senses. I'm sure the paint on the walls was peeling. The mucosal lining of my paranasal sinuses was surely being dissolved. I quickly wiped up, prayed for peace from the spirit of that vengeful brown elephant fetus I had aborted earlier, and then got back to bed. Unfortunately, my prayers weren't answered that evening; my sins against that initial turd were going to be purified through painful pooping. I did fall asleep between trips to the toilet, but in all I got up at least five times to spraypaint the inside of that bowl. It was on this fifth (and thankfully final) visit that the most horrendous of indignities was visited upon me -- by my own hand, no less! (OK, so the whole thing was my fault; but this was the worst). It was around three AM... no... four... I don't know, I was so exhausted. It was still dark, anyway. The final expulsion was much like a broken sprinkler running out of water, spitting and sputtering, spraying the final remnants of the Nu-Lax over the porcelain. I was finally completely empty. The inside of the bowl looked like it had been through a war zone -- that is, if guns fired sloppy poo chunks instead of bullets. My sphincter was burning, not just from the acidic bum-juice dissolving my arse-muscles, but from painful over-wiping with that cursed cheap toilet paper my brother had. Unfortunately, in my tired, delirious state, the final wipe, which was uncharacteristically front to back, had the effect of smearing searing liquid acid diarrhea on my ball sack. Horrified, as this had never happened to me before, I began to panic. I wiped off as much as I could, but I knew there would be bits I couldn't see, clingy bits on the hair down there. I didn't want to fall asleep and smear poop all over the place; more importantly, I didn't want my sister-in-law to find skid marks on the sheets! There were two showers in this house. The one joined to my brother and his wife's room, near the twins' room, was out of the question. I could never clean myself up in there at whatever in the morning and not have them hear it. I could just hear them asking, "Why are you having a shower at four AM?" "Duh! Isn't it obvious? Because I got shit all over my ball sack, geez, like it's never happened to you!" Yep, if that had happened I would never live it down. It had been at least seventeen years and I still hadn't lived down the infamous "Superman incident" from when I was three. Option number two was an utterly stupid and pointless shower located outside, in the backyard shed. Why it was there, I don't know. Maybe the previous owner was planning on building another room. Or maybe God, in all his glory, knew I would one day NEED that extra shower where no one would hear me, and just put it there out of pity. Who knows? Anyway, I snuck outside at fourish in the morning, fought back my niece's dog, and -- long story short -- scrubbed and cleansed my entire body as quietly as possible. Even the horrifying thought of the menagerie of spiders in the shed at this hour on a summer's night didn't sway me from purifying myself -- and that's saying a lot for me. Using the espionage tactics I had learned in my early school sneaking-to-out-of-bounds-areas phase, I snuck back into the house and promptly fell asleep, utterly spent and exhausted. Incredibly, no one heard me use the toilet even once; I had escaped all embarrassment. To this day, I still don't know what caused such a horrifyingly high level of constipation; but I have learned to always keep some laxative handy when traveling. But under no circumstances will I EVER use more than the recommended dosage. And I no longer take Coke with me on a plane.  Post new comment
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