For as long as I have been able to poop in the toilet, I have been known to have an iron stomach and a stainless steel-reinforced sphincter. For many years, nothing could sway the power of my anus. But with my teenage years came a revolution I have been fighting. No, not against The Man -- against my once stone cold bowels. The lovely 1.6 gallon American Standard throne with its tricked-out, dye-stamped chrome flusher with a Delrin tie rod that I called home would be defiled in a battle such that I have never experienced.

It was a Wednesday. The family was going to a favorite pizza place in town, and since I always loved the pizza there, I tagged along. This place is your typical shady pizza joint: weird people, nice atmosphere, and even better pizza. It's a fine mix of New York and Chicago-style pizza, and it's so good it will make anyone happy.

I ordered my small mushroom, peppers, and onion pizza with glee, and sat at the booth awaiting my dinner. Oh, if only I had known the anal carnage that would take place later…

After eating three quarters of it, I started to notice the pizza was quite a bit greasier than I was used to. But I ate more anyway, despite my gut feeling. After finishing it, I smiled, let out a large, greasy burp, and drank my grape soda, joking and talking with the family.

Have you ever gotten that feeling after you've eaten a lot and even the mere smell of food makes you sick? Well, I did...

I awoke the next morning to the rumblings of an overworked stomach. So I went downstairs and took a nice dump. I felt better, so I got up and about and started to get ready for work. I work at a department store; so all I get to do for six hours is fold towels and sell appliances. About four hours into my towel folding, I started getting hot and sweaty, feeling the urge again. So I dropped what I was doing and speedwalked to the bathrooms -- which, thankfully, weren't that far away. The men's bathroom here isn't bad. It's usually clean.

Usually. I walked in there and realized the cleaning crew was scheduled to come later that night. There were four magic stalls.

Stall One. I wasn't going in there -- it smelled like pickles.

Stall Two. Looked like a murder scene.

Stall Three. I wasn't going near it -- toilet paper all over the place.

Stall Four: the handicapped stall. I ran in, locked the door, put down the handrail, and went to the mattresses. A hot, putrid spew of old pizza shot forth from my now burning anus, making me curl over in pain. After about ten solid minutes of this, I was sure of its end, so I wiped and walked out like nothing had happened.

Work went well and I got home fine. I went to sleep that night a little queasy, so I took some Pepto for assurance.

Bad idea. I woke up four hours later on the battlefield, with visions of a great General clouding my vision. It was time for the battle to be fought. I ran down the stairs and into the bathroom that would be my home base for the next twenty-four hours. Wave after wave of nearly-explosive diarrhea hit me, punctuated only by massive fits of puking. Thankfully I was alone in the house, so no one could hear my agonizing screams as my sphincter was stretched to its utter limits. After eight hours, I had to call my mom home early; I was so weak from all the pooping and puking that I was parked on the couch, shivering from the whole ordeal.

After sipping Gatorade and ginger ale for close to six hours, the pain subsided and I started to feel better. It was over, and I was thankful. I went to sleep on the couch that night, just to be safe.

I woke up the next morning again to a quiet house. I was going about my ways, checking all my mail, when I farted. I smiled, as I usually enjoy such happenings; but then I noticed it was a little wet. Too wet. I had shat myself. The last bit of liquid evil drained itself into my shorts, as if it was a suicide bomber.

I went into the loo to finish the job, then took a shower and washed all contaminated clothes.

It took me three weeks to fully recover to the point were I was moving solid stool on a regular basis. As a result, my regularity timing is now off. I used to be late afternoon crapper -- now it's late evening.

I have dismissed my once highly regarded bowel system. It has failed me. It crumbled under the pressures of harsh food. Now it's nothing but a civilian. I have given it a dishonorable discharge.

Needless to say, I'm never eating pizza at that place again.