My father, of Scent of a Woman [1] fame, has been plagued by weight problems for many years. In the autumn of 2002, he decided to try a liquid diet that entailed subsisting solely on protein shakes made either with low fat milk or water. Wanting to lead by example, and wanting to keep off the thirty pounds I myself lost through diet and exercise my senior year of college, I decided to join him. Telling me that the diet "sucked," my father insisted that I keep eating solid dinners. I ignored him.
It was October, and I was riding my bike to work every day through the chilly New England fall. Every morning I would rise, jump on the bike, pedal the seven miles to downtown, shower at a gym, change and go to work. Once at my desk, I would down protein shake numero uno.
Inevitably disappointed upon realizing that breakfast was yet again not so hot, my guts would go to work getting their vengeance on me. Seated behind my desk and trying hard to actually be productive, it would begin with a feeling that someone was pumping my stomach full of superheated helium. Then came the sounds -- loud enough to occasionally be heard on the telephone (and bear in mind I was still in a cube; the private office came a year later). My innards would make sounds like a cinder block rolling down a corrugated steel roof, squeaks like Flipper the Dolphin, gurgles commensurate with a stick being plunged into thick mud, moans like a ghost and then, most ominously, silence -- the calm before the storm.
After forty-five minutes' worth of feeling like my gut was going to explode, sitting there red-faced and sweaty with pain and trying to blame the noises on passing cement trucks, the calm was much appreciated, but it would never last. If the protein shake went in at 8:30, woe unto me at 10:30 if I were on one of my many research phone calls -- I would suddenly be faced with the grim realization that if I didn't drop trou soon, my anus would come raving out of my pants like something befitting Alien.
Off to the office toilet I'd run. Once on the bowl I'd unclench and vent off great clouds of largely odorless and oddly cool gas, with a few wizened chunks of turd thrown in. The best part was once again auditory -- enough gas was being expelled from my ass to actually whistle like a teakettle as it left my butthole. The little wizened turd chunks, though, required a soothing toilet paper; as such, the office's supply of econo-wipe often rubbed me the wrong way.
I'd need to perform this exercise two or three times between 10:30 and 12:30, at which time I would drink my second shake and get my freak on once again.
The pièce de résistance came one chilly morning at the end of October. I planned to move my riding indoors on the first of the month, so I was still arriving at work chilled to the bone. Thinking of a delicious hot mocha mix, I blithely dumped my chocolate-flavored protein powder into a steaming mug of coffee and mixed. Delicious! Warm and comfy, I went to my desk to begin working.
Almost immediately, my gut began to swell. The feeling of superheated helium inflating my poor stomach came on alarmingly quick. "Uhhhhhh," went my stomach. "SKEWeeeeeet," went my stomach. "Plorch," went my stomach.
Red-faced and sweating, feeling like the room was about 104 degrees, I tried to hold on. I knew this was going to be bad. It was a quarter to nine, and pretty soon my cube-mates would be arriving from the subway; there was no way I was going to palm the sounds of a soaking wet tuba filled with Jello off on construction equipment.
"UHHHHHSKWEEETPLORCHAUGUGUGHOOAH!" went my stomach, loud enough to be heard in Cleveland. This was very bad. Off to the bathroom I went. Astride the cuckstool I vented off everything in one gallant rush that lasted a full minute and a half. Boiling hot gas, last night's dinner, bits of Twinkie I'd eaten in first grade, and of course the coffee and the protein demon scoured my battered intestines like they were snaking a drain.
Shortly after that, my father and I went back to solid food.
Though it was quite cleansing and great for shedding the pounds, I can't see the coffee-and-protein breakfast catching on in Hollywood. After all, can you see Paris Hilton trying to film The Simple Life while her stomach goes, "UHHHHHSKWEEETPLORCHAUGUGUGHOOAH?" No, I didn't think so either.