For almost a year I lived with two guys from West Africa, and one of their favorite pastimes was eating. You name it, we ate it; and man, did we eat a lot of it. The shits that resulted from this diet weren't very noteworthy, but the ones that occurred when I suddenly stopped eating it were. They could only be described as the intestinal revolt from Hell. Now, you have to understand that many meals in the west African diet are eaten with some kind of starch: either this stuff called fufu, which kind of resembles over-done cream of wheat, or rice. Well, anyway, all things must come to an end, and there came a day when I had to move on to other cuisine. I suspected that the sudden change in diet would wreak havoc on my intestines, but I didn't expect the following.
When I left Washington state, I moved to Wisconsin, which is known for, among other things, its cheese. The people that I lived with for a time didn't eat a lot of cheese, but what they did eat a lot of was this slop called boiled dinner. For those of you who don't know what this nasty stuff is, it’s a mixture of ham, potatoes, cabbage, and whatever else you can shove into a pot and let boil. They should have called it run right through you nonstop, because that's exactly what it did. The only shitter this house had was located on the other side of the house from where I slept, and while normally its location wouldn't have been a bad thing, on this particular night it was horrible.
The night started out like any other; we ate the slop, and then settled down to watch the tube. About an hour or so after eating this vile stuff, I realized that I’d switched diets a little too quickly.
If my intestines could have spoken, they would have said, “Okay, you want us to do what with that slop, exactly? Come on! Give us some real food and never eat this shit again.”
I should have listened to the rumblings--and the other noises--that issued from below, but alas, I didn't, because I didn't think anything of it. I did however know the warning signs from reading the stories on this site, so I high-tailed it as fast as I could to the other side of the house.
At first I thought I wasn't going to make it, and that my meal was going to be in my pants and all over the floor. I ran like a mad woman into the bathroom, slammed the door behind me, and was pulling my pants down while trying to get to the toilet when it happened. I felt the urge to fart, but instead what came out was the stickiest, most fowl-smelling stuff I had ever smelled--and will probably ever smell again. The smell alone can't be explained; that's how bad it was. Not only that, but man, did it burn. It didn't burn going in, but it sure as hell burned coming back out. Luckily this all took place in the bathroom, so the only casualties in this shitshuation were the floor and the outside of the bowl.
After a few minutes of spewing out toxic waste, it was over. Now came the fun part--wiping. This shit had the consistency of undercooked fufu mixed with a bit of hot, sticky shit that I couldn't identify. This was going to be one of those whole roll jobs, and the folks that I lived with were very, very cheap; they bought their shit paper from Dollar General. If you've ever wiped your ass with the shit paper from a dollar store, then you know what it’s like. After attempting to get the shit out of my crack and my ass cheeks, I decided that the only way I would succeed would be by taking a shower, and not just a normal shower but a full-on Silkwood shower. While this may not have been as bad as radiation, it sure as hell felt like it.
