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 Weekend At BurningsPosted 05.04.2003 by MJ Gallagher (11)
My friends and I rented a couple of hotel rooms on the Jersey Shore for a three-day party weekend. It was Friday, and my friend Jim and I were on our way. I drove, so Jim started downing beers in the car ride down. By the time we pulled into McDonalds, Jim was pretty well lit. He ordered two Big Macs, French fries, the works. I wasn't hungry and can't stand McDonalds food anyway (it gives me the shits), so I didn't eat anything. Jim ate in the car and finished everything he ordered. We continued on our way, and soon we were at the hotel.
When we got in the room, Jim said he wasn't feeling so hot. His stomach was gurgling and making really bizarre noises. He finished one more beer and then went into the bathroom. A half-hour later he was still in there, so I knocked and asked if he was OK. All I heard was him barfing into a trash can and some really loud, disgusting diarrhea sounds. I continued to drink and figured Jim would emerge eventually. About an hour later, the rest of the crew showed up and checked into their rooms, which were right next door to mine. They asked me about Jim, and I just pointed toward the bathroom. "How long has he been in there?" one asked. "Going on two hours" I responded. Everyone came down to my room and we started playing drinking games, downing shots of Grey Goose Vodka like they were water. We kind of forgot about Jim, even though he was in the bathroom the whole time. We decided to use the bathroom next door since Jim had taken up residence in mine. Three more hours went by and he was still stuck in there. "He's been in there for five hours. Maybe we need to get him to a doctor," I said to everyone, waiting for some other feedback. But before anyone could answer, the bathroom door swung open, and out staggered Jim. We all gaped at the brown shit stains all over his shorts as he stumbled back toward the bedroom. He fell face first into one of the beds, let out four squirty farts, and passed out cold. I checked to see if he was breathing. He was, but the rest of us were having trouble -- the stench from the bathroom was unbelievable. Two of us peeked in the bathroom with beach towels over our noses. What we saw was unreal. The toilet was filled to the rim with brown liquid shit and there was diarrhea and puke all over the floor and the toilet seat. There was puke and diarrhea on the towels and the trashcan was overflowing with vomit. There was even a big brown liquid turd sitting in the bathtub. To this day, I have no idea how or why Jim shat in the bathtub. We instantly declared the bathroom a disaster area and ran out of the room and closed the door. We continued the party next door. I passed out about 4 AM. The next day, I woke up about noon. Housekeeping was knocking at the door to clean and make the beds. I was still a little groggy, but it soon hit me -- housekeeping was going to clean my room next door with the condemned bathroom! Before I could react, the maid had entered. Apparently, she had knocked on the door and, receiving no response from The Diarrhea Kid, walked in. I stumbled in after her. She immediately covered her nose with her hand, and tears started welling in her eyes -- the smell had worsened overnight. She looked in the bathroom, muttered some curses, and ran out of the room in disgust. I went to check on Jim. The bedroom smelled as bad as the bathroom. Jim hadn't left the bed, but he had been shitting some more. He was awake but incoherent, crying about how his asshole was on fire and how he needed surgery on his sphincter. I told him that the maid had been in, and was definitely going to tell the manager. Sure enough, five minutes later came a knock on the door. It was the hotel manager, and he was ever one pissed-off asshole. "The maid said this room is trashed. You both have to leave immediately or I'm going to call the police." I thought for a second, pulled a $50 out of my wallet, and explained as I handed it over that Jim had a "medical problem." I assured him we would gladly pay for any clean up and damages. Surprisingly, he accepted my explanation -- I'm sure the $50 helped -- and said he would send the maid back up "after the room aired out." Although, in my mind, no amount of air could have helped. I spent the remainder of the day by the pool. The maid came by and said she wanted $100 to clean up the room. I went back up, opened Jim's wallet, and gave her the money. Poor old Jim spent the rest of the weekend in his bed, lying on his stomach and complaining about his burning asshole. He didn't crack one beer for the rest of the weekend. And he never ate McDonalds again. -- MJ Gallagher Post new comment
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