Fifteen years ago I was still enjoying life as a normal teenager living with mom and dad. Our family's tradition was to spend the Christmas holidays in an exotic tropical paradise resort. My old man had booked two suites for us -- one for him and my mom, and one for me (being an only child was definitely a plus). We usually stayed there for two to three weeks; and other than upset stomachs due to changes in eating habits, nothing serious had ever occurred on these trips. Little did I know that fate was already laughing at me.

On this certain day, I'd eaten chicken for lunch. And as soon as I finished the meal, I knew something had gone terribly wrong. Maybe the food was bad, or maybe I'd exceeded my own limits after gulping down dessert. So I was expecting a brown tidal wave shortly after -- but to my surprise, nothing happened. I smiled at my good fortune, and even though I did not stop burping a foul stench all afternoon, life was good and plentiful. These amazing fifteen-year-old brunette twins who arrived at the hotel had started flirting with me! While it may sound too good to be true, I wish I could change the dramatic and shameful events that happened later that evening.

As the story goes on, 'twas the nightmare before Christmas and, feeling excessively confident in myself, I decided to invite the twins to dine at the restaurant, away from my family and their folks, though they'd be in the same dining room. Our parents had easily made acquaintance that afternoon, so they accepted our proposal. In the back of my head I was still concerned that lunch would return to haunt me, as that nasty burping never stopped, even though I had taken some Pepto Bismol.

Dinner was great. We were halfway through, talking, laughing, and feeling quite independent from our parents, and I was sure the chicken incident was completely over, until...

The latrine Gods decided to take revenge on me all at once: I was struck by a sudden dizziness, my skin was covered in cold sweat, I was shivering, and a burning, water-like pressure began to push against my butthole with all its stinking might. No doubt about it -- scat demons had been released from the bowels of the earth to get my soul. Having been raised a Catholic, I tried to remember a good prayer for this certain death while I clenched my cheeks as tightly as I could and pretended I was still in paradise. One of the girls asked me if I was OK -- I guess my face revealed that I was begging the Almighty for forgiveness. The stomach cramps were unbelievable, and it sounded like all souls from Purgatory were simultaneously crying my name out loud.

Explaining the situation to my newly made friends was awkward, to say the least; and being the geeky kid as I was back then, I decided not to take any chances. All my strength was centered in containing the doomsday blast that was about to happen.

It's curious how your mind works sometimes, especially if you're in anguish. You can block all unneeded information from the environment to focus on your system's priority -- in this case, shitting. Specifically, NOT shitting. I can still remember the twins' faces, the background music playing; but all in slow motion, like in movies... and the pain, oh my God, the pain...

My room was too far from the restaurant, but there were bathrooms near the hotel lobby, so I decided to go for them. I apologized, left the table with no more explanation, and headed towards my only salvation. When I got to the stalls I dropped my shorts, letting out a moan of satisfaction as my rear end exploded with thick liquid squirts and humongous gas bubbles. Each squirt felt like pure acid, and I'm pretty sure Hell's spawn must have delighted in the putrid odor I left behind. When there was no more left inside of me, I took deep breath, wiped as best I could, and tried to rejoin my friends.

But it was not over yet. Shit ghouls took another shot at me, and this time it was worse than before. Although a world-class athlete would have envied my sprint, I do not recommend dashing towards safety in these situations. A word of advice: think before you act, grasshopper.

To this day, I do not know why I tried to run to my suite.

It must be the stupidest thing I've ever done. You can imagine the final outcome. I was only a few feet from my room when hell broke lose, projectile vomit freed itself into the atmosphere, and a dense yellowish veggie liquid burst into my shorts and started to drip down my legs as I finally opened the door. I believe I heard laughter somewhere -- maybe it was the underground devils rejoicing on their victory, or maybe it was the next-door neighbors. Who cares? I got into the shower to clean up, called the restaurant to have my dad excuse my absence to the girls, and went to bed, condoling the poor soul who had to clean up my mess.

For those who want to know, the twins and I are still good friends, and we still get a good laugh from this story.

-- Winnie the Poo