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 Fireworks Of My OwnPosted 07.20.2007 by Rootin Tootin (11)
Today started pretty uneventfully for the Fourth of July. I woke up late thanks to the holiday, lolled around in bed for a good while, and spent the better part of the morning catching up with my Tivo and the Internets. Before I knew it, it was two in the afternoon. At about this point I felt the need for a small snack, so I indulged in a slice of suitably ripe Camembert and some crackers, both washed down with a glass of skim milk.
Why, I hear you ask, do I relate these intricate details of my boring life? Well, as a creature of habit, my day usually starts with a cup of tea and a light breakfast. The mid-week holiday caused a disruption in that routine. I should also mention that, as an adult, I may have developed a slight intolerance to lactose. As I put the carton back in the fridge I noticed something I'd picked up at the Fairway purely out of curiosity: habanero-stuffed olives. I don't know if you're like me, but just thinking of tangy, salty, juicy olives gets my mouth watering. I have a fairly high tolerance for spicy foods, though I'm fully aware that if it burns going in, it's going to burn going out. Nevertheless, I'm one of those idiots who tells the waiter at the Thai place on 9th and 52nd, "No, regular spicy is fine." So, back to the olives. I yielded to temptation and popped one into my mouth. I could tell that this was not the run-of-the-mill jalapeno-stuffed condiment you get in the pretty glass jar. Oh, no. As I endured the heat of that first sample, my asshole almost cringed in anticipation of the burn that would be forthcoming in a few hours. The smart money at this point cuts its losses and runs. Not your idiot correspondent. Convinced that this was a four-sigma sample, I decided to bite into another. Big mistake. Not only was this one bigger, but the heat was at least twice as bad. Mouth on fire, lips burning... I knew this called for an emergency solution. I reached into my stash of fruit yogurt and slaked the fire that my stupidity had stoked. After much pain (I shit you not: sticking my tongue to the roof of my mouth to dull the burn caused my eyes to water), I finally declared victory over that Scotch Bonnet conflagration. Thus awakened, I went back to the mindless marathon of some show in which promiscuous partners were confronted by their "baby daddy" in what looked like the same strip mall in Texas in every episode. After about four hours, I was fully anticipating some kind of repercussion. In my experience, spicy foods are no friend of the stomach lining; it's as though every organ along my alimentary canal says "Oh no you don't!" and expedites the exit of the irritant toute de suite. It is a further testament to my gluttony for punishment that at about six PM I had a sudden hankering for Indian food. Yes, I shit you not. It's odd now that I think about it, but I had to have my idli and dosa. And it had to be at the Indian place on 26th and Lexington, the one in which almost all the clientele are Indian and every item on the menu has (or should have) the spicy star next to it. Authentic in every way. So I rushed on over, beating the dinner rush and finding my way to a table. This place is my favorite restaurant bar none. Acquavit and Bouley's might claim to be purveyors of fine cuisine, but dinner at Saravanas is a gastronomic and gastric experience that punishes the glutton but draws him back for one more round to pitch his orifices against the best the chef can dish out. Thusly sated, I ventured back into the drizzle and headed home to the Upper West Side. It's not often that I ride the bus, but I thought this would be a fine day to put a bit of custom their way. I'd ride the bus more often if I could -- being able to see the city streets is much more pleasant than trying to identify the source of that killer B.O. on the subway. I'm not sure if you've ridden buses in Manhattan, but the rear end of the bus is where the engine is -- and where most of the vibration is located. This was not common knowledge to me, and I was only made aware of it in alarming fashion this evening. As I rested ass in the back of the bus, I was made aware of an odd sensation: in much the manner of a concrete agitator, the vibrations of the diesel began to settle the explosive contents of my belly. This, my dear reader, is where the aforementioned skim milk comes into play. The first inkling I had of the upcoming problem was mild pressure in the lower abdomen. "No worries," I thought. "Just a routine fart." How differently I might have felt if that same fart had crept up on me at a meeting at work. Where I would otherwise have placed my sphincter on lockdown and dealt with the consequences later, on a noisy bus with the diesel camouflaging the noise, I felt no hesitation or guilt in letting it rip. So I did. On most occasions my farts are pretty routine Big noise, no smell... disappointing. But I knew this one would be very different. Big noise, sure -- but more disturbingly, it felt hot. Hot like a breath of hot air blowing through my nether orifice. The smell caught up with the sound a couple of seconds later. This one was a real tear-jerker. Sadly the bus was empty save two old gentlemen across the aisle from me. I had to suppress a grin as I noticed them catch a whiff. Hee, hee. Sweet revenge for all those times I had been the victim of flatulent assault. My happiness was short-lived. That was not the first report. Soon thereafter, in rapid succession, I was dropping loud ass in truly stinky fashion. I knew that once the vibrations had worked the gas out of my system it would only be a matter of time before they hastened the cheese, milk, habanero, and curry bomb out my chute. I was correct. No sooner had we passed 42nd Street than I felt the unmistakable approach of a turd masquerading as a fart. As one who has always erred on the side of caution, I was not going to let this one through. But I realized that I had to get home fast or there would be Consequences. No doubt about it: my bravado was going to be my downfall unless I could find a bathroom pronto. You may think that I should have just moved to a seat closer to the driver and lasted a few blocks more; but you know how it is. Faced with a situation whose outcome is not yet certain, the optimist labors on with the hope that it will all turn out well in the end. At about 66th Street, this optimist was rudely reminded that this was not going to be the case. Time for drastic action. Unwilling to shit myself on an MTA bus and within a few blocks of my bathroom, I decided to take matters into my own hands. Getting off at the next stop, I took off at a trot towards my apartment. Cursing briefly at the two fire trucks that prevented me crossing against the light, I rushed onwards. There were moments when I wasn't sure I would make it. But the thought of the burn that I was about to experience caused my O-ring to seal itself protectively just in time for me to burst through my front door, plonk my ass down on the toilet, and let the Fourth of July fireworks commence a little early. It wasn't large, it wasn't particularly loud, and it wasn't particularly runny. But, by God, it was HOT. I could tell now why that first fart had felt like a hot breath. This was pure fire being emitted out of my back end. (Which leads me to an interesting question: if the ass can "taste" spicy, can it also "taste" sweet? But that's an experiment for another day.) As I grabbed the towel bar for support I could only make myself a promise I'd made many, many times before, usually after a night of excessive drinking: "I swear I'm never doing that again." The only redeeming factor was that my colon was in no mood to dilly-dally with the antagonists. Skim milk, habanero, and (I hoped) curry were ejected in swift manner. As quickly as the assault had started, it was over. I was in tears (again), but had survived. I rose weakly from the toilet, wiped gently, and flushed. A few acidic burps reminded me that the battle may not yet be over. The enemy could be regrouping with reinforcements from the curry brigade... but that is something that I will only know tomorrow morning. My plan is to go back to my morning routine: banana and yogurt. I'm done with spicy for now.
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