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 The Law Of The Conservation Of Energy BarsPosted 09.04.2007 by Doo-rango (69)
I have been an avid mountain biker since the early nineties; and in that time, I have been aware of the many technical innovations and gadgets that have come and gone with varying degrees of success and popularity. At some point early on, G.O.R.P. (Good Old Raisins and Peanuts) was no longer en vogue as a source of quick energy, and was ultimately supplanted by energy bars.
To be honest, I have never felt a boost of energy or anything else other than strange cramps in my abdomen as my internal organs tried to come to grips with this strange sustenance. Nevertheless, I clung to an internal belief that somehow these energy bars enabled me to ride better. My use of energy bars peaked and dropped off after one particularly long race, during which I consumed at least four sticky energy bars of a brand that I had not bought before. It was a good race and I came in just behind the winning pack, which made me feel good about my abilities as a rider. My friend and I decided to celebrate our finish with a greasy meal at McDonalds, where I stacked two hamburgers, fries, and a large sugary drink on top of the science experiment already brewing inside me. Like many of the readers here, I enjoy a good shit, and I am proud of the regularity, frequency, and overall quality of my poops. (Maybe I should keep records?) Unfortunately, on this race day, a metamorphosis was occurring in my stomach that was intent on defiling my clean record. The greasy burgers had acted as a catalyst, turning the mass of coagulated energy bars into a solid plug, not unlike the chemical action of a two-part automotive epoxy. After two days of constipation and mounting pressure, I was becoming alarmed. I thought in my mind of the multitude of meals that were piling up behind it, threatening possibly to emerge at any minute from the back of my throat. Those first few days I felt the urge to go many times, and I would often run to the toilet and put myself through a torturous physical ordeal that at one point included slamming my ass up and down on the commode in pure frustration, as if I could unleash this beast like ketchup from a bottle. My efforts all ended in utter failure, and I shamefully abandoned the throne time and again without so much as a squirt of pee or a dry fart. I went to the store and bought a laxative for the first time in my life. At twenty-five, this was as embarrassing as buying tampons for your sister. I purchased a few buffer items along with the laxatives and brought it all back to the apartment. My lifetime experience with medicinal drugs had convinced me that the typical dosage was never adequate; I frequently doubled the adult dosage of any medication in order to attain the desired effect. I applied this methodology to the laxative and took a double dose of the small "chocolate" bars. My girlfriend cooked me a large pasta meal, which I wolfed down, confident in the fact that it would soon be out of my system. About midnight, I felt the urge. I remember seeing a big grin on my face in the mirror when I entered the bathroom. At last! Such naiveté. Twenty minutes later I had been reduced to a pathetic figure, a shadow of my former self. Naked and sweating, I sat on the toilet after passing a few rabbit pellets with extraordinary effort. I felt my eyes tearing up. I muttered a long string of expletives. I left the sweaty toilet seat red-faced and dazed, a distended vein bulging from my temple. I laid on the bathroom floor, a defeated man, unworthy of the sanctity of the throne. I wanted my mommy. I angrily pounded a fist onto the linoleum and swore to God that this was going to end TONIGHT -- come hell or high water. And so I went to the box of laxatives and ate the remaining pieces. I opened the second, ‘back-up' box that I bought and ate all of it angrily, too. "That'll show you!" I hissed. I punched my stomach in anger, as if beating up an internal demon to be exorcised. I then went into the living room and lay on the couch, as I was too agitated to go back to bed. I eventually fell asleep. A few hours later, early in the morning, my abdomen was racked with painful cramps and internal rumbling. I surmised that I was going through a male version of labor pains. Then it hit me. It is difficult to describe that point at which you know with 100% certainty that something is going to happen, but this was it. A most acute internal thrust opened my eyes wide open and forced me off the couch and to the toilet. I was almost jubilant, but still aware of the fact that I had gone down this road many times before in the preceding days. To my horror, I discovered that the bathroom was occupied -- and I knew that I did not have more than five or ten seconds max before my ass had to be hovering over an open toilet, a bucket, linoleum -- anything! "BABY!!!" I shouted desperately. "I need to get in right now!!! It's TIME!!!" She knew what this was all about. Still: "Can you give me just a minute?" A desperate laugh of disbelief escaped my throat. I was naked and standing on the light tan carpet that covered the floor of our apartment. At the edge of my peripheral vision was a magazine rack that was jammed with bridal magazines (we were engaged at the time). In a flash, I grabbed a magazine, opened it, and held it below me just as a torrent of hot excrement shot out with enough mass and velocity to compromise the delicate balance of the magazine. The despicably ugly extrusion continued unabated and quickly overwhelmed the dimensions of the magazine. Unable to stop, I felt the warm mass move around my hands and heard globules of shit plop onto the carpet. The moment felt surreal. This could not be happening to me. About that time, the bathroom door opened and my fiancé exited. "It's all yours--" She caught sight of the spectacle. She stopped. Her mouth dropped open in disbelief. I managed a hoarsely-whispered "sorry" that I am not sure she heard. Wordless, baffled, stupefied, she went into the bedroom, obviously seeking a place of solitude and peace away from the horrors of the world in which she could attempt to convince herself that this naked creature befouling her bridal magazines with the shameless impertinence and vile ignorance of an early hominid was not the same man that she had agreed to marry, grow old with, and be the father of her babies. The next hour was partly spent cleaning the carpet and partly spent sitting on the commode and evacuating the remaining contents of my system. But by mid-morning, life began to return to a state of normalcy. I recognized the beauty of the world. Birds chirped cheerfully outside. The sun rose brightly into a clear blue autumn sky. My ordeal was over. I was sitting at the kitchen table, reading the paper, when my fiancé finally emerged from the bedroom, yawning. She walked straight into the kitchen, poured herself a coffee, and sat down at the table, her hands wrapped around her warm coffee mug. She stared me straight in the eyes with a look of superiority -- the kind of look that you see from people who have never had a moment of fecal failure. Was I worthy of her love? I made a mental assessment of my belongings and began to construct a moving timeline. I noted the difficulty of separating all of our CDs. Seattle seemed like a nice place to start over. I pondered the difficulties of changing one's name. "Well" she said, pausing to take a sip of coffee. "How was your morning?" What can I say? Her humor is what attracted me to her in the first place. Post new comment
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