You know that feeling you get right before you yak your liver up?

Sitting in the bathroom, staring down at the toilet, watching that one pubic hair float in lazy circles forever and ever and ever... Stomach churning and frothing as it readies itself to expel the vile concoctions you were foolish enough not to pass up three hours ago. The massive quantities of saliva building up to lubricate your throat...

That is where I was Saturday night around 2 in the morning after a long night of Beer Pong and Irish Car Bombs.

I was resigned to my fate. I knew that I was hours from sleep. With this certainty came a certain level of comfort -- I knew what was happening and how long it would take; I just had to tough it out.

My body arched in a spasm of nausea. The water I had swallowed just minutes before burst forth. It was still fresh and cold as it pumped out of me. My brain reeled as my body took over what little control I had left.

As I came back to reality, I realized that there was a very new and different feeling in me. It was familiar, but I could not quite place it...

My thoughts were interrupted as I braced for another heave. Just as my body bloomed again into vomitous rapture, I realized what the strange feeling was: my bowels wanted to follow my stomach's lead.

I cursed my Benedict Arnold intestines for their lack of patriotism as I wretched again. I think that a lesser man would have turned into a mountainous two-spouted volcano of filth in my situation. But no, this was to be my finest hour.

My muscles heaved and pushed, but my ironclad anus held on with the tenacity of a toothless pit bull. When it was over, I lay on the floor, exhausted and utterly demoralized. I knew I could not hold out against another onslaught -- and already the cursed devil liquor was regrouping for another attack.

I had only one choice. I had to make a deal with Satan. Yes -- only the Prince of Darkness could save me from a brown and slippery doom.

But apparently even Lucifer could not control the fury that was growing within me. I lurched, and gave up on satanic worship to invoke Plan B. Plan B consisted of madly tearing off my shorts as I wobbled to a crouching position over the toilet. I barely made it in time.

The bathroom echoed with staccato bursts of alternating hard and soft fecal matter. I felt emptier than I had ever been in my life. My burning ass quivered, and squirted the remaining chunks of mushy goop. I exhaled a sigh of relief and inhaled slowly through my nose to calm down.

My stomach folded in half as the warm swampy air hit my nose and my brain registered just how foul my living conditions had become. Luckily my bathroom is very small, and the tub is only a foot away from the toilet. Under normal circumstances I consider this an annoyance, but now I blessed my tiny bathroom -- in the only way I could.

I heaved a cup of bitter yellow bile into the tub. As I gasped for air, I was knocked flat by my own stench and heaved again. It was a vicious circle.

To make things worse, each wretch would extract a squirt of poo which amplified the effect. If holding the fort moments ago had been my finest hour, than this was certainly my Dunkirk.

I stayed like that for what seemed like an eternity. A human being, stuck in the most diabolical and disgusting feedback loop ever devised. Eventually, I think the stomach acid spewing through my nose burned my olfactory receptors enough to end my misery. I slowly wiped and inched off the toilet, utterly defeated.

My last thought as I passed out on the moldy bathroom mat was "I hope I remember this because it will make a great story for PoopReport."
-- Gil the Pooper