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 Cabin FeverPosted 10.10.2006 by bowlfiller (54)
In July I went on holiday with a friend of mine to Zante, a Greek island, where we stayed at the party resort of Laganas. During our stay, both of our asses had been less than pleasant. It took maybe two days before both of us had cases of the runs, and batter was being sprayed on an hourly basis into our poor toilet. I got some very embarrassing pics of my buddy in that toilet -- there was no lock on the door, and bursting in with my digi-cam became a regular occurrence. We even took one of the biohazard itself.
The runs weren't the painful type that cause abdominal discomfort. They were the type that mean when you're by the pool and you feel some gas, you better get running to a privy. When the feeling came, you had to go. And when you had to fart, you had to do so over the toilet for fear of Skiddy Wink McSphinc leaving some unforgiving stains on your white swim shorts. Ninety percent of the time, what came out was a foul squirt of liquid, with a few pellets of poop. I'm pretty certain it was the excessive quantities of alcohol that were causing these hourly dilemmas, as we were eating what I would describe as "safe food:" steaks, breads, and fries in the evening, and some very basic sandwiches during the day. We were, however, drinking on a nightly basis a half-liter of vodka each, plus beer, fishbowls, cocktails, and shots. I have it in my head that my body was more busy dealing with these quantities of booze than properly processing my poop. So this continued over the week, until the final day came. We had made many friends while away, and we planned on having a massive night out with everyone before our flight back to the UK in the morning. We had everybody over to our apartment and balcony, and we were drinking from around nine PM until midnight before we suited up and hit the town. We had a fantastic night, spending our last Euros on whatever we could get our hands on. At six AM, as the night was drawing to a close, we started to head back to the hotel when hunger stuck. We stopped at one of the multitude of cafes that line the strip between the bars and clubs. There it was, spinning on its skewer, with low heat hitting it from the burners behind. You could see the sweat dripping down it as it rotated slowly, beckoning you to order it. The gyro. Greece's version of the kebab. One knows that that same meat has been sitting there spinning for hours, possibly days, maybe even longer; but through beer eyes it looks delicious, and you don't worry about the flies that have been buzzing around it all day, or the fact the café is a dump. You just want some food. We ordered, and yes, without a doubt, they did taste supreme, salty chewy pork meat wrapped in pita-type bread, with a delicious sauce and salad. They went down a treat, and made good company for our walk back to the apartment. Now, here my memory is a little blurry. It was six or seven AM, and I'd been drinking heavily, and I continued to do so after I got back to the hotel. I assume I passed out, luckily on my bed. Next thing: bang, bang, bang! The door flies open. It's the girls from next door who we'd been out with. "Your coach is here!" they screamed. My blurry eyes opened widely. I looked at my watch. It's ten AM and I could hear the coach outside. I had packed the night before, but that didn't matter -- we were too late. I could hear the coach pulling away. I couldn't f'in believe the holiday rep hadn't even bothered to get us up. Anyway, moving on. We had no option but to walk into town and grab a taxi to the airport. Now, you can only imagine how this feels. Two hours sleep, still half-pissed, walking in the beating sunshine with forty kilos of luggage... I wanted to lay down in the middle of the road and die. We managed to get a taxi, get to the airport, and board the plane. Me and my pal were having a little laugh and reminiscing as the plane took off and we were on our way home. The end of a fantastic holiday. Well, one door closes, another opens, as they say; and another certainly did in this case. The door was my sphincter. Around twenty minutes into the flight, I began to feel the aftereffects of such a hardcore night. I felt terrible -- every noise was booming inside my head, every jerk from minor turbulence was making by innards slosh. The familiar feeling of abdominal discomfort spread across my middle body. It was at this point I remembered the greasy gyros I had consumed five hours earlier. I knew what was coming; or, I thought I did. I had no option but to head to the toilet. And we all know airline toilets -- after you have squeezed yourself through the tiny door, managed to turn around to lock it, then planted you ass on the seat, you can't move or do much else. So then it started: the back door opened and the poop came out. Neither fast nor slow, it meandered its stinking way out, leaving a feeling in my stomach like acid was burning my insides. The poop had a consistency I have not come across in my twenty-four years of life previous. It was fluffy, like a mousse or some sort, like it was full of gas pockets. It made an awful puckering, or maybe wrinkling, sound as it came from my behind. At this point I caught my first nostril-full, and something happened that has never happened to me before: I vomited without thought nor feeling. It just sprayed out onto that pathetic excuse for a door and then onto the floor. The convulsion forced more shit out of my ass at higher velocity. I grabbed a sick bag and prepared for more of the same. I can't put the way I felt into words. I haven't felt such pain and discomfort before in my life. No lie: as I'm sitting here writing this now, I'm grimacing at how bad I actually felt. I was closing my eyes, rocking back and forth as the mid-body pains came and went. I was still having convulsions, but nothing more can from my mouth -- just smaller, sloppier amounts of crap from my hole. Tiredness was taking its toll. I found myself jerking out of light sleep and not realizing where I was, only to then look around and smell the horror I had created. My t-shirt was dripping wet with sweat, my face was flushed. And then came a tapping at the door. I didn't know how long I'd been in there. I'd drifted in and out of consciousness several times, and I was still a little confused as to what was actually going on. The knocking came again. I didn't know what to do about the mess I had created, and to be honest I didn't care one bit -- I was too tired to care. I just wanted my bed. I wiped and attempted to make myself presentable, which is kinda hard when you're covered in sweat with sick down the front of your t-shirt. I opened the door. The air hostess recoiled at the smell. I could see her eyes flicking around, seeing the sick dripping down the door and already all over the floor. I didn't know what to say, so I said nothing I didn't know what to do, so I just stood there uncomfortably Then I just walked away, sat in my seat, and tried to recover from my ordeal. My friend asked me where I'd been while tapping his watch. I asked him how long I'd been gone. "Just over an hour," he replied. I sat there for the remainder of the flight without moving, freezing as the cold sweat clung to my T-shirt. The nightmare was soon over. I'm sorry for whoever had to clean that toilet, and I sorry for the person who was sat on my left, who for half the trip had to sit next to a sweating, sick-wearing victim of a hangover and gyros. I went to Ibiza a few weeks later. I took the last night off -- no booze, no party, and nothing that resembled rotting meat. It paid off. Post new comment
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