I have lived in four places, covering three states and twenty-five years. I have danced through three separate professions, and have met a great many people, in a potpourri of settings. So, I can say with a respectable amount of authority, I know poop and I know people.

A couple of days ago, synchronicity, coincidence and fate decided to rear their infamous little heads, all in one weekend. Two individuals of my acquaintance are currently on the drug known as glucophage. This compound allows the human body to ignore starches/sugars, keeping them from having to deal with the unnatural production of insulin.

It does, however, have a side effect: predictable bouts of diarrhea.

If my friends were to avoid starchy foods, they would not have to take the medicine, and not have to deal with watery side effects. But instead, they indulge.

So I have often heard the forlorn cry, "Oh, it always does that to me!"

Or, "Oh, fuck, my new pants!"

I was out with one of these buddies one night. We'd planned an adventure with a grill, a backyard, and lots of beer. Chicken sounded good. I was gazing (uh, swooning) at the fresh corn on the cob, my first of the season when, from behind me, my friend piped up, for half the produce department to overhear, "oh God, corn goes right through me! I hate cleaning up afterward." Tell the world, why don't you?

I was in a Mexican restaurant a few weeks back, when the waitress was explaining the yummy differences between a tostada and a chalupa. Both are flat, crisp fried tortillas. One is a veritable salad, piled with stuff, with guacamole on top -- whereupon I hear this female New York-affected projection of nasality burst forth for all the room to take in -- "Oh, no! Avocado gives me the runs!"

I don't care where I go, there's always someone -- rich or poor, race not an issue, age unimportant. Give it a little time, usually where food is involved in a major way -- party, buffet, restaurant, book signing.

What happens?

You'll hear a testifying, all right -- but not to the holy spirit. More like the unholy one. Or the holey one.

There's always at least one person -- an expression of panic, hand gesture of hopelessness, despair, resignation -- and it comes out: lamentations of a food that does them in.

In this case, we're not talking acid reflux, heartburn or indigestion.

No, we're talking
the trots
the runs
losing it
Major embarrassment.

Isn't it great? Think about it. There's an edible sword of Damocles hanging over so many people.

And just why am I writing this?

Psych profs would call it approach-avoidance. Evangelists would call it "putting oneself in the path of temptation." I call it hilarious. Here you've got something -- be it tex-mex, sourkraut, pickles, pepperoni, sushi, you name it -- everyone has an Achilles heel.

I know African-American guys who can't tolerate milk, but still drink it after strenuous activity or 'cause they like it. OOPS!

I know a Jewish mother, loves cheesecake. Eats two (count 'em, 2) pieces, then gripes (right out of Tracy Ullman), "Oy, I'll be paying for this tomorrow!" OOPS!

An Asian friend of mine, an authority on good Thai and Chinese restaurants in several cities, loves exotic sauces, vegetables and condiments unheard-of to the Westerner; yet, if given anything with ricotta, parmesan, cheddar, sour cream or a good Swiss cheese, will get the running sloppies like a Saint Bernard eating a pizza.

And, yes, I've seen the aftermath of that too!

And does he avoid these?

Nope.

OOPS!

And yours truly? I love jalepenos, siracha sauce, Dave's Insanity Sauce and anything by Paul Prudhome. OOPS!

My point: these are not in any way stereotypes or slurs on anyone. They are, however perfect examples of human nature. Chile-heads go for the burn, the endorphin rush. Extreme sports fans love the danger, coupled with the thrill. And PoopReporters go for this:

"I know I shouldn't, but I love it. Oh God, why did I do THAT?"

-- Hershey-Squirts