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 South Of The Border DisorderPosted 02.17.2006 by Colon Chowder (10)
It was the mid-1990s and I was in my mid-twenties, headed south for the Mexican border with a buddy and several cars full of fellow dive bums. It was early morning, but the temperature was already at ninety degrees and rising. Any of us would have told you that we were in for a week of drunken excess, diving the cool waters of the Sea of Cortez, and (hopefully) debauching ourselves with raven-haired Mexican beauties. Ass trouble was the farthest thing from anyone's mind. "What could possibly go wrong?" I thought, gulping down the second McMuffin of the morning.
After several hours hard driving through the Sonoran Desert, stopping occasionally to refuel and eat at taquerias that would gag a coyote, we reached our destination. I always like to christen my hotel bathroom upon arrival; but this time, alas, there was no mud. The heat must have dehydrated me. Oh well, I thought, its party time! Still, in the back of my mind, I was beginning to have some doubts. Much of that first night passed in an alcoholic stupor. Cheap beer, margaritas, and a dizzying array of bar food went down my gullet in mass quantity. At one point during the festivities my friends and I ended up in what can loosely be described as a steakhouse. Very loosely. We might have taken a cue from the absence of patrons, the visible grime, or the fact the dominant aroma was one of stale cigarette smoke; unfortunately, we chose not to heed these omens. A couple hours, several more beers, and one incredibly tough, steak-like mass of greasy animal tissue later, we retired to our rooms to await the first day's diving. Once again I perched and pushed, and once again relief was denied. My inebriation prevented me from appreciating the gravity of my situation, so I went to bed and slept it off. Six o'clock AM. Please God, just take me now. You guessed it -- the mother of all hangovers had descended upon me as I slept. Nausea, a blinding headache, and a little of all the post-bender goodness we're all familiar with. To top it off, I had to shit. Fearing a rancid beer slurry, I ran into the john and squeezed out a quick turd, rather like a brown golf ball, and then... nothing. Dammit! Why can't I shit?!? The golf ball bobbed gently in the bowl, a mocking testament to my failure. Two hours later I was on the boat. True, I was too hungover to dive, but I thought the sea air and company would help alleviate the misery. As we motored out of the marina my guts began to gently throb, and I knew right then and there that today is a good day to dump. The weather began to sour at about the same time as my innards, and we had to plow through some pretty bad chop. This did nothing to lessen the growing discomfort in my writhing bowels. Finally the ever-worsening seas, coupled with the tropical heat and pounding hangover was too much. I charged up to the bow and told the captain I was in desperate need of the head. His two-word answer chilled my soul: "Lo siento." (Literally "I'm sorry," but given my predicament, "you're fucked" would be an acceptable translation.) One of the deckhands added unhelpfully, "Ess brokeen, senor." I waddled back to my seat to contemplate impending doom. With each swell we crashed through I felt the battering ram take another slam at the gates -- the barbarians were going to break through and slaughter us all. But then the porcelain gods must have taken pity on me, as the crew announced that the weather was getting too rough. Everyone else was grumbling, but I just sat there, sweating bullets and silently praying for a few extra knots. All the way back my fevered brain conjured visions of Moby Dook doing backflips in my rectum. Finally the trauma ended and we pulled into our slip. The captain hadn't even cut the throttle before I bounded up the gangway and raced to the marina store. "Bano!?! Bano?! BANO!!!" I shrieked as I ran through the door. I recoiled in abject horror upon opening the door indicated by the frightened cashier. The bathroom looked as though someone's ass had exploded in there; but the next spasm jolted me out of my disgust and I promptly shut the door, dropped trou, and plopped down in one motion. For a moment, nothing -- the calm before the storm. Then my roiled bowels cut loose. What can best be described as Hurricane Craptrina rocketed into the foul bowl in a series of loud, staccato blasts that left me with an alarming amount of splashback. I hurriedly cleaned up as best I could, pausing briefly to look down at what my ass had wrought. It was vile -- two days of booze and greasy food combined into something that is surely on tap in the Devil's punchbowl. As I flushed and walked back into the store, all appeared normal. But then an old lady shot me a knowing glance, and the red-faced cashier refused to make eye contact. Apparently the walls were indeed as thin as I had feared. They had all heard the howling fury of Craptrina. I left, mortified, much relieved, but mortified. Post new comment
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