Disclaimer: This could actually hurt someone.
I grew up with brothers -- two large guys who made it quite easy for me to fart on a first date and laugh about it. I endured torture beyond belief for a girl. I have been pinned down and farted upon, I have had a toilet blow up on me... but that's another story. This story takes place in September of 1979. Our parents were out avoiding each other. Our dysfunctional little family had one day when the kids ruled the home. And that was Sunday.
It was early Sunday afternoon, after a couple joints, when my brother Mike suggested we make cookies. Munchies in full force, we took out the flour and got cooking.
In the basement, my brother Paul and his friend Randy lurked like little trolls, coming in and out of the living room and kitchen while we waited for our cookies. At some point they demanded we share our stash (the green stuff) with them; we flatly refused. Then they asked for some cookies and we told them to wait for them to cool. But, being miffed that we did not share our grass, they heisted the huge plate of cookies and locked the door to the rec room, all the while giggling their asses off.
We had about half the cookie dough left, a few raisins, and no chocolate chips. You know what's coming, don't cha? We went to the bathroom, searched the medicine cabinet, and found it: the sixty-four tab box of chocolate Ex-Lax mother used for her pre-menstrual constipation.
Ya, baby!! Down to the kitchen we went. We chopped up the tabs, mixed them, cooked them, and patiently waited for the sound of the basement door opening. And it did. They got the second batch, locked the door and, of course, laughed their asses off.
Randy went home and all seemed well. Six or seven hours passed and nothing seemed to happen. We waited patiently while watching the Great Late movie (we only had like four channels in those days). It was at least seven hours later when we heard the sound of a huge man running up from the basement, saw the flash of my brother running through the living room at incredible speed, and then heard the bathroom door slamming shut. This was followed by at least an hour of flushing, accompanied by our incredible laughter in the living room.
My six-foot-four brother emerged from the bathroom looking as though he had spent the past two months in the desert with no water. "I'm sick," he said. And we laughed some more.
After we dropped the news of the chocolate cookies on him, Paul phoned Randy's place. Randy's mother answered the telephone and told him that Randy had been in the bathroom for two hours and would not be able to come to the phone. Yes, we laughed some more.
It was not all funny, however -- I spent the next five or six years checking and double-checking my food, as Paul's exact words were: "There will be payback for this." In fact, I still won't let him cook for me; but God knows what I may have ingested since then anyway.
