I have always had a love of two things: practical jokes and hot food. A few years ago I discovered a little ditty called
Dave's Insanity Salsa. This bad boy of a salsa is way too hot for most folks, but I like it in moderation.
Without moderation, it does some odd things to your digestive system.
Being the practical joker I am, I decided one day to take a jar with me to work. Armed with chips, I placed a bowl full of the salsa on my desk. I worked in a very open environment where everyone knew what everyone else was doing and food was always an attraction. As I hoped, my salsa trap worked like a charm. I had several grown men walk up, dip a huge chip-full of the hellish stuff into their mouth, and then clap their hand over their mouth, mumble curses, and run like children to the break room for water. All in good fun -- most came back later for more. Since the bowl was on my desk and I had easy access (and I could take it), I sampled my wares often that day. I left the office with a great sense of accomplishment, having had a good laugh several times.
On the way home, my wife called and informed me that she wanted to visit the local mall for some shopping. I suggested that we eat at the Ruby Tuesday's while we were there, and she agreed.
I made it through the shopping fine, regaling my wife with stories of how I had sprung the salsa on so many that day. I really had to idea what was happening in my guts all through the shopping or the subsequent meal at Ruby Tuesday's. Everything was great, or so I thought. We paid the waiter and got up and left the restaurant.
We had parked, unfortunately, probably a half-mile from the door of the restaurant. It was a nice summer night, a bit warm but not too hot. Just less than halfway to the car, the beast from Hell suddenly awoke in my intestines.
This was really different from the way a normal shit starts making itself known. There was a low, dense burn in my stomach, accompanied by a grumbling that I thought I could relieve with a quick silent fart. I dropped back a few feet behind my wife to avoid engaging her with what I suspected was going to be some bad ass-gas and released a bit. Bad idea! I instantly recognized that even a small fart would result in a major shart. Even worse, the beast was now trying to burn its way out of the back door, having seen a small opening just for a moment. I knew I could never make it home, or even to the car.
I shouted a quick "I am sick!" to my wife and threw her the keys. I waddled and hobbled my way to the restaurant, fighting with everything I had in me to keep the beast in check. I got to the door and blew right by the hostess and into the men's room. Luckily the stall was free and there was no piss on the seat. I quickly got my jeans to the floor and my ass on the porcelain. I knew that I was about to get my comeuppance as a practical joker.
My sphincter couldn't hold the beast back any longer. Out shot a stream of shit and water that smelled like something had died inside me days before. And, oh my God, the pain. Dear God, the pain! Every semi-solid turd that hadn't been eaten alive by the liquid fire inside me felt like a bit of glass as it rocketed out of my ass. The smell was matched only by the horrific splashing sound of the shit spewing into the bowl.
I was reeling. I really thought for a bit that I was going to have to get my shitty ass up off the seat and turn around and vomit into the mess I had just made. Thankfully, I fought back the nausea; and eventually the flow stopped. I felt empty, but the pain was almost unbearable. I flushed the God-awful mess away.
Anyone who has ever taken a shit in restaurant knows they don't use the best toilet paper; I was faced with the thousand-foot-roll-of-sandpaper model. I wiped most of the liquid away without much pressure on my battered anus, but the burning remained. Another flush, and a bowl of fresh "clean" water was below me. I retrieved a large helping of the sandpaper, wet it in the water, and clamped on my asshole. Sweet relief! Several more like that and I was able to get all of the splashback off my cheeks and get the burning down to a minimum.
Shakily, I got to my feet and pulled up my jeans. The underside of the seat look like a war zone. I cleaned it up as best I could and washed up.
Upon leaving the men's room, I noticed a couple of waiters looking toward the door, and I thought I could see them sniffing. I made my way back to my car with a newfound respect for Dave's Insanity Salsa and a promise that I would never again eat as much in one day as I did that day.
When I got back to my car, my wife asked, "Did everything come out all right?" Did I mention I married a practical joker, too?
