It had been nearly five months since my last meal of sushi. Although it had ended with me hurdling my beloved dog to make it to the can before ruining my undies, I vowed to not let this particular experience ruin my taste for the Orient.
I got the call that afternoon as I worked. The same friend with whom I had eaten sushi that fateful night five months ago was again jonesin' for raw fish. At the time, it sounded like a good idea. There was a new sushi place called Ikko right near my house. It had gotten rave reviews and I figured it was time to get back in the saddle.
Last time, the way I figured it, my downfall was mixing cultures. I washed down my sushi with a big, greasy cheesesteak and some shitty beer known as Blue Moon Ale. (Just a note: don't ever, NO MATTER WHAT, drink this slop. Take it from me. When someone offers you a pint of Blue Moon Ale, drink some toilet water instead.) This time, I would keep my food and my drink wholly Japanese.
We entered Ikko and all looked well. The restaurant was immaculate as well as beautiful. The employees all looked the part with their traditional Japanese garb, although their nametags displayed easy-to-say American names. I don't know about you, but I don't know any native Japanese people named John or Bill. Anyway, we sat down at the sushi bar and looked over the menu. The first thing I noticed was that all the guys behind the bar looked to be of Asian descent. This was a good sign. Rule number one of eating sushi: NEVER eat sushi made by anyone who does not speak Japanese.
Thus, rule number one being satisfied, all seemed well. My friend decided to stray from the ordinary and get some hand rolls. Hand rolls are pretty much just big hunks of raw fish wrapped in seaweed. I myself can't eat them -- they are just too slimy to swallow. But to each his own. I stuck with my normal order of spicy tuna rolls and spicy lobster rolls. For an appetizer, we split some shrimp tempura.
I watched John and Steve make my rolls right before me. There was not so much as a hint of fish smell in the air. Again, another good sign. When fish is fresh, it doesn't smell like fish. But, in hindsight, it's like how my old boss used to describe his taste in women: "If it smells like fish, it's a tasty dish. If it smells like cologne, leave it alone."
We devoured the tempura with some warm saki and everything felt okay. Little did I know the albatross that was growing in my gullet. Our sushi came; again, we both inhaled it. The lobster roll tasted a bit funny to me. Not like it was bad -- just funny. I asked my cohort to partake in my lobster roll, saying, "This tastes shitty. Try it." Being as dumb as I am, he agreed and ate a piece.
"Yeah, that tastes like my ass. I wouldn't eat any more of it."
Once the lucidity left my head (due to much imbibing of saki) I ventured on to the tuna roll. Again, it didn't taste bad; it just tasted funny.
"Taste this," I said. "It's shitty like the lobster."
"Yeah, tastes like my ass again. Try this hand roll -- it smells like your sister."
We both chuckled in a saki-induced haze and continued to eat our crappy sushi.
At the end of the dinner we were both feeling okay. My stomach felt pretty much like it usually does when I eat: bloated and heavy. We parted company with a hearty handshake and a raucous fart from my friend. Its smell, laden with saki and wasabi, was worse then his normal farts. We both laughed at the pure horridness of it and went our separate ways.
As soon as I got in my truck, I knew that eating at Ikko had been a bad idea. My stomach began to make sounds like fighter jets dive-bombing enemy targets. There was island hopping going on in my guts and I needed to let the boys out of the hangar!
The pressure began to build at a feverish pace. I slouched to one side to try and alleviate the pain in my stomach. It didn't help. I had to drive only about four miles, but I didn't think I was going to make it.
I pulled into my driveway like a racecar driver going in to pit. I ripped up the e-brake and jumped out of my truck. My roommate, the cheap fuck that he is, hadn't put the porch light on and it was dark out. I couldn't see the keyhole in the door enough to get my bent key in. Damn it! I didn't have time to fuck around with this! I was standing on my porch shaking like a pedophile at a Cub Scout meeting as I tried to get my key into the door. My knees began to buckle and I knew I was in dire straights here. To come so far and to lose it this close to salvation was an awful thought.
I slowly reached into my pocket to grab my cell phone. I flipped it open to reveal just enough light to see the keyhole. I slid my key in and gingerly turned it to open up the door. The door swung open and inside I leapt. I knew that this was going to be at least a thirty- or forty-minute barrage of all-out warfare. As I entered the house, I noticed the pamphlet for the new Volvo I have been looking at. I'm not sure if I was delusional or just plain dumb, but I detoured to grab the Volvo booklet to take into the crapper.
Just as I grabbed it, I knew I had made the wrong choice. The tsunami inside my anus would wait for no man, nor would it wait for me to grab my yuppie car pamphlet. Just as I turned to head into the bathroom, the demons made an all-out rush for my dirt hole. It was like the entire defensive line of the Giants slamming against my anus. I just didn't have the power to stop them. I might have been able to hold back one or two hard rushes, but not the entire force this shit had brought. I just didn't understand the power that I was dealing with. The shit spewed from my now breached o-ring, into my boxers, and down my leg.
I let out a girlish yelp and sprinted for the bathroom. I ripped down my jeans and soiled Jockeys just in time to completely spray the back of the bowl with spin art. My fart box retched as the entire contents of my guts spilled forth into the void below. I was in so much pain I didn't even pull off my shit-filled underwear.
And then, just as quickly as it began, it ended. I sat there in utter silence, trying to figure out where in my life I had gone wrong. I laid my head in my hands and slowly wept to myself.
After all was said and done, my underwear was the only real casualty; well, my underwear and my pride. Then again, if you've read any of my other stories, you know my pride pretty much went out the window a long time ago. I've crossed Ikko off my list of places to eat. I've also crossed sushi off my list of favorite foods. Shit my pants once, shame on you. Shit my pants twice, shame on me.
My good buddy, incidentally, had a similar situation befall him on his ride home. He's a bit larger then me, though, and he had the intestinal fortitude to hold his shitstorm in. He too defecated unmercifully once he got him. He said he didn't shit his pants; though I bet he did and he just isn't telling me.
So I'm done eating foreign foods. I'm sticking to cheesesteaks, pizza, and American beer. I think my Jockeys would approve.
