A friend of mine is very into spicy foods. He got me started by tantalising me with a hint of Tabasco, and since we have worked our way through every possible chili concoction. During this time we were both working pretty hard and thus Friday nights were looked forward to as a chance to unwind. Generally, our evening would begin at my place, where we would call out for pizza and drink beer before heading out for an assault on the local wildlife.

We live in an area with about eight different options for home-delivered pizza. We'd call these places and ask them to make a ridiculously hot chili pizza for us. The actual spiciness would vary from mundane to excruciating, but we finally found the perfect place. Their pizza would arrive quickly, covered in a thick layer of chili seeds, held together by a small amount of cheese. By the time we had eaten a slice or two each we would be sweating, crying, wiping our noses, and beet-red.

You can imagine the chain of events this set in motion. On one particular night, my digestive process was in complete sync with my social progress.

As I entered the nightclub (half drunk and ready for loving), I could feel the heat in my duodenum. The chilis released noxious gases from my gullet as I found a nice girl. She must have been drunk too because she didn't reel at the smell and the heat of my breath.

I asked her if she would like to come home with me. "No, but I live around the corner and we can go there" she said -- as my lower intestine began to churn. We walked down the stairs and out of the nightclub as something gave way in the deepest recesses of my digestive tract.

The cold chili sweat was back, and I could almost hear the gas and liquid gurgling -- nay, boiling -- away in my bowel. But I defnitely wanted to bed this girl, and as much as I needed to void my bowel, I refused to give in, stocked with the knowledge that once I started the process, the post-chili pizza bowel movement was an epic which knew no immediate end.

So I'm two steps from the door of this girl's apartment, and as she puts the key in the lock, I feel a tremendous pressure on my anus from the inside. I'm not ready for it, and I almost shit myself. My will and my bowel strength are being tested -- and although the mind is committed, I'm not sure of the state of my body.

I enter her apartment and sit on her couch. Then, thank god, she says she has to go to the bathroom. As she does, I let myself out to have a cigarette on her balcony, knowing that I can use this time to let as much gas out as possible. I'm quite drunk, and decide (sensibly at the time) that I would be best served pants down, squatting, just in case some liquid exits with the gas.

So there I am, pants off one leg, squatting on her balcony, and I hear her about to come out. The sudden motions required to stand up gives me the feeling that I'm not far off. I need a toilet. Now.

I walk past her, saying I have to go too. I haven't even got my pants off when the gas starts exploding. I manage to sit though, and try to keep quiet while in the full knowledge that I am about to defile this poor girl's home with my stench.

I don't need to push this one out -- I just release the muscle tension. A huge volume of explosive liquid waste rushed out of my body. I spasm violently, a reaction not just to the huge rush of relief and amazement at the volume, but also at the excruciating pain which is caused by the stinging of the bile-like liquid.

Then the lumps follow. They are dark green and are roughly the size, shape, and consistency of boiled eggs. There are five or six of them, floating now on top of the fetid, putrid liquid which still bubbles and threatens to eat its way through the enamel of the bowl.

Then the stench spreads. Being of my own creation, generally I am pleasantly surprised by the invisible fumes of the chili purge. These, however, are something else. Not just terrible. That couldn't accurately describe this -- it made my eyes water and my stomach heave. I could almost feel the warmth of the gas on my face. I could certainly feel it rising from below.

The ordeal was far from over. By now I had dismissed any chance of bedding this girl, so I wiped, washed my hands, flushed twice, and walked out of the bathroom and out of the door without a word to the poor girl. Straight into a taxi and home to the tranquility of the toilet which would be my prison for the next three hours as I purged my body of every waste product it produces.

Tomorrow night I am going to order that same pizza. It hurts, but by God it is worth it.

-- Tollstrup [1]