It was a bright and beautiful April day. I was sitting at my office when my friend Sid called and asked me if I was interested in going to the Pirates' home opener. Finally -- baseball had come! It was an afternoon game, so I finished up what I was working on and headed to the North Shore to meet Sid.
Now, the baseball team in this town is NOTORIOUSLY horrible, and has been for the last seventeen years, so winning is not exactly what draws people to the games. Thus the city erected a majestic ballpark on the banks of the Allegheny with a great view of the city as and endless culinary options to decide between while watching the home team lose again.
Sid and I decided to start with large orders of fries from the Potato Patch. There was an array of toppings to choose from: chili, nacho cheese, garlic oil, chopped garlic, parmesan cheese, and sour cream. Sid thought he would play it safe: chili and cheese. I however, always adventurous, said, "Give me everything on it."
The lady behind the register gave me a funny look. "Everything???" I laughed and nodded. Seconds later, I was presented with a triple-insulated paper basket with a mountain of toppings so thick you couldn't see the fries. I immediately went to the condiment stand and added some onions, jalapenos, and a dash of Red Hot. My colon must have thought it was watching a horror movie!
Sid looked at me and said, "You eat that after that sixer of Iron City in the parking lot and you won't make it to the fifth inning," followed by cynical laughter. I paid him no heed as I dug in, plastic fork bending under the weight of this heaping mush of bung napalm. I made it halfway down the basket and could eat no more.
We grabbed a couple beers and headed to the rotunda to watch the game and the attractive women populating the stadium.
It turned out to be a fantastic game. Over the course of many more rounds of brew, I made it through six innings with no problems. HA -- so there, Sid! After the Bucs tied the game in the seventh, however, I began to feel and hear little rumbles and gurgles as the colon rebels I had consumed began their assault on my digestive tract.
"No problem," I thought. "They'll find a way to blow the game by the ninth and we'll be out of here."
I was wrong. As the ninth inning wound down in a tie, I was beginning to cramp and sweat. Sid noticed my change in demeanor and mentioned that he, too, was not feeling too stable. We waited it out, tempting fate in the hopes we might catch a glimpse of a rare Pirate victory; so the tenth and eleventh innings passed and the shouts for freedom from my intestinal Bastille grew louder and more ferocious.
There was no attempting a dook in the public bathrooms after nine innings of drunk fans pissing all over the seats, so the only option was to hold and wait until I got to a more suitable environment. The Cubs scored in the top of the twelfth and Sid and I raced down the escalators to the parking garage as gingerly as we could, utterly aware that one false move could ignite the tater assault.
We made it to my truck. The contractions seemed to have slowed a bit. I drove across town to my office, anticipating the sweet oasis on the fourth floor of the building. As I pulled in front of my office, parking illegally in a loading zone, Sid and I scrambled for the elevators and took what was possibly the longest elevator ride of our lives. We were both releasing demon air bubbles the whole way up. I swear the elevator was covered in a green haze by the time we exited and exhaled.
I realized, as we walked into the bathroom, that there were only two stalls, and they were right next to each other. I snagged the handicrapper, knowing I may need to stretch and strain, leaving Sid to fold up in the tiny stall next door. What followed could probably rival the bombing of Dresden as Sid and I levied one bazooka blast of putrid potato plaster after another into our poor toilets, laughing like idiots the entire time.
After evacuating everything I had ever eaten, I washed my hands and waited on the other side of the bathroom for Sid. Just then, an attorney from a firm on the floor walked in and occupied my funked-up former stall. Sid, thinking that I had reentered for round two, immediately unleashed a barrage that could have disabled a tank, laughing like a loon the entire time.
At that I left, going to my car so as not to be associated with such unprofessional behavior.
Sid emerged from the building a few minutes later, red-faced and giving me the evil eye, but looking much slimmer. The attorney has never been seen again.
