Way back when dinosaurs thundered across the plains of Pangaea dropping Volkswagen-sized monster loads, back when Duran Duran and a bunch of other mostly shitty bands were the kings of music on that new channel called MTV, and back well before President Reagan lost control of his brain and his no doubt capacious bowels, my cousin and I flew from the northeast to Acapulco, Mexico, for a week of establishing the cellular framework for future melanoma (via the sun) and wild vaca-sex (via like-minded young ladies, not each other). Being in our twenties and full of piss and vinegar -- as well as other fluids, as you will read -- we hit the beach shortly after arriving and then hit the clubs after the sun went down. Following a night of moderate drinking, and with no nibbles from the other tequila-addled tourists, we decided to call it a day. But not before grabbing some grub.

But where to go? The street vendors? Those dimly lit local restaurants with no tourists in site? N-F-W!

But, wait! America beckons!

We came upon the familiar sight of that yellowish-oval and a real American name that sounds like "Lenny's." Breathing a sigh of liquor-sotted relief, we happily trotted to the door. After greedily breathing in our omelets, we contentedly oozed back to the hotel, knowing that the next day would bring us more sun and, hopefully, some serious sexual satisfaction. It was probably two AM before we drifted off peacefully, blissfully, full of hope, promise, and with a great week ahead of us.

Within hours, I began to toss and turn in my sleep. My stomach began to rumble and yell. Satanic farts screamed from my ass in a cacophony of discordant notes: deep thundering ones, questioning kitty mews, and machine gun rat-tat-tat farts. Every variety known to man (but never woman) was launched from my ass like an intestinal game of Scrabble that spelled only one word: D-I-A-R-R-H-E-A.

Quickly gaining full-consciousness, I trotted to the john in a panic. I knew that I was in trouble. Peeling off my boxers, I sat down and immediately filled the toilet with the most vile, hideous toxi-shit ever to leave my innards.

I hoped that this evacuation would prove the be-all and end-all; but, as Ben Franklin once wrote, "He that lives upon hope, dies farting." Returning to bed, the cramps began, and then a constant cycle of shitting and cramping and wiping.

After three days of very little sleep and a whole lot of wiping and shitting, I decided that continuing to tell myself "this will pass" could in fact result in my death by farting -- or even shitting. After receiving approval from my HMO back home, I made an appointment with the doctor who serviced a bunch of hotels on the Acapulco beach strip. I staggered down the sidewalk, not giving two shits about the acrid fart trail wafting into the offended nostrils of the Japanese tourists behind me. At that point, I couldn't have cared less if I was leaving a trail of liquishit in my wake AND they were taking a million pictures. I was in a diarrhea funk: all awareness of all my other body parts and functions was cancelled. I had become totally focused on my insides. My ass was raw and my stomach felt like I had been disemboweled by cramps.

Upon arriving at the doctor's office, the middle-aged MD greeted me with a knowing smile. He kind of looked like that Dr. Manny guy on Fox News Channel. His young and pretty nurse was also there. After I briefly explained my situation to him, he reached into his supply cabinet, pulled out a rather large syringe, and loaded it with what seemed to me to be an insane amount of some kind of medicine. The expected request of "Please drop your shorts and bend over" left his mouth. I was in such discomfort that I immediately complied, not really caring whether I had done a proper wipe job on my last firestorm of feces. I was desperate.

The doctor inserted the rather high-gauge syringe deep into my ass cheeks. The pain from the medicine being released into the area was so intense that I almost blacked out. I pulled up my pants -- I'll admit to looking for any ass crumbs that may have flaked off -- and skipped around the room doing the pain dance.

But... what's this? Where did my cramps go? Why don't I have to squirt into the bowl? I mean, it has been twenty minutes...!

The relief I received from that injection was almost immediate and total.

To this day, I have no idea what medicine was in that syringe! Do any of you?