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 The Anti-GallbladderPosted 10.17.2007 by The Shit Volcano (3740)
Editor's note: this was originally posted on the forums.
The anti-gallbladder. That's what I call it. The little shit demon that the surgeon replaced my gallbladder with in March. I was told that my bowels would adjust in about a year after surgery, but until then I might have symptoms of IBS. Every post-gallbladder patient I have talked to has this problem -- some only for a year, and other times for a lifetime. It doesn't really matter to me, as long as I get some good poop stories out of it. Each of the patients I have talked to also mentions that there are certain foods that they can't tolerate. It never seems to be the same for each patient. One guy I know couldn't have peanut butter. Another couldn't have cashews. So far I have been safe in the nut department, but my intolerance appears to be to olive oil (except first cold pressed) and foods high in chemicals and/or fat. So the other day Gilbert and I decided to take my sister's roommate out to TGI Friday's for a treat. I figured it was okay to order the cajun alfredo chicken pasta because I ate the same thing at Chili's without even a whimper down below. So I enjoyed every bite of my pasta and even had a nice dessert at the end. Nothing exciting happened, at first. But halfway through my dessert (chocolate cake a la mode! Yum!) I felt an all-too-familiar cramp. Sometimes these cramps can be deceiving. They might mean that I'll have to go to the bathroom and squeeze out a sticky log, or maybe that I just have gas. It's really hard to tell until I am on the toilet. So I excused myself to the bathroom and sat down on the surprisingly clean toilet. After a few minutes of pushing against the cramps, all I got were a few squirts of jelly. Yes, jelly. Something I have only produced post-gallbladder. I'm sure you're all thoroughly disgusted by now. Frustrated, I pulled up my pants and returned to the table. This was obviously going to be one of those gassy cramp episodes. We paid for our food and left the restaurant; but no sooner had we pulled out onto the road when I heard a deep, internal gurgle. "It's happening again, isn't it?" asked Gilbert, very quietly. I nodded stiffly. Each gurgle brought another wave of pain similar to those I felt with Gordon's birth. Each time one of those pains came, I felt my asshole bulge from more pressure. Fluid seethed and bubbled just behind my anus. I knew if I waited much longer, I'd have my first public pants shitting in a few years. "Oh," I groaned, involuntarily. "Hurry up and get us home!" I never realized how many bumps the road to my sister's house had until that night. Each jarring motion of the car caused me to cramp further. My asshole opened and a little more jelly leaked out: the fat from my recent meal. I could already feel the heat from what was behind it. On the next bump, I rose up off the seat, my asscheeks clenched. I ended up unzipping my jeans because the pressure was so great on my abdomen that I was afraid my pants would force the shit surge loose. Each foot closer to the house seemed like an eternity until my sister's roommate, who drove, finally stopped in the driveway. She didn't stop to ask questions. Instead, she handed me the keys and I ran for the door, gripping them tightly in one hand while unzipping my jeans in the other. Unfortunately my grip on the keys was a little too tight, and I accidentally pushed the panic button on her car alarm. "Shit!" I yelled. It was eleven at night in a noise ordinance area. "Shit! How do you shut this thing off? I can't see this button in the dark!" I turned around and headed back to the car, tossing the keys to my sister's roommate. In the process, my jeans dropped to my ankles and I stood bare-assed in the middle of the street. Thank God for a no street lights or I'm sure it would have been quite a sight: me naked from the waste down as some lady struggles with a honking car alarm. She slammed her car door and darted toward the house to unlock it, forgetting all about the things she was collecting from her trunk. I bolted past her without so much as a thank you, my pants still around my ankles, dodging several cats and dogs. Obnoxious Cat decided that now was the time to freeze in the middle of my path down a narrow hallway. She just looked up at me all bug-eyed as I tried to get around her. It was like reaching for a basketball hoop. Every time I tried to go around, she blocked my way. "GET OUT OF THE WAY OR I'LL SHIT ON YOU, STUPID CAT!!!" Obnoxious Cat turned into a gray-and-white blur and disappeared. I leapt over the baby gate to the bathroom (left so my sister's dog didn't indulge in kitty roca) and plopped my ass down on the pot. PFFLOOOSH!!!! I was right not to fart in the car. Hurricane Katrina poured out into the toilet bowl, complete with a splashback storm surge. It took about three flushes for the drowned residents of New Orleans to finally vacate the bowl. (Damn old water-saving toilets!) Pea green poop, pieces of chewed chicken, partially digested noodles. It was disgusting. I thought the storm had passed. But moments after I settled on the living room couch, another wave hit me. I pushed Gilbert out of the way and darted into the bathroom again. Fucking Rita had arrived with about as much fury as the last shiticane. The residents of Houston were just as stubborn, consisting of more chewed chicken, a few bites of an appetizer, and more of that green oily stuff from the last burst. This went on most of the night. Rita was followed by Stan, who was followed by Wilma, who was followed by everything up to Hurricane Zeta. It was the 2005 season all over again, coming out of my asshole. The color of the shit went from green to brown as the chocolate cake and ice cream made its debut. "Funny," I thought. "I don't remember eating THAT much." I found out later that TGI Friday's uses MSG in their food. Obviously, anti-gallbladder doesn't like MSG any more than olive oil. Maybe worse. At least olive oil is only a one-time explosion. Geesh! Post new comment
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