last saga [1], but rather a result of GB: Grog Bog. Grog Bog is what my friends and I have named the heinous shits that occur the morning after a night of boozing. Usually these shits are horrifically smelly, long, and uncomfortable to hold, creating a sense of urgency that only IBS shits are able to eclipse. You definitely want to be in the privacy of your own cozy bathroom for these dumps.
Friday night was spent drinking until the wee hours at an Irish bar in Manassas. The next morning I wasn't completely wrecked, but I needed sustenance. A hearty breakfast of eggs, cheese, bacon, and a bagel made me feel immeasurably better, ready to conquer the day. My boyfriend was headed to his dad's house for lunch and he invited me to come along.
My boyfriend is Vietnamese. His father has issues with his son dating any girl other than a demure little flower right off the boat from the Motherland. After the five or six times I'd met him, he was slowly warming up to me, but I had to make a concerted effort to be headachingly polite and feminine. Which is difficult -- I come from a family where poop jokes, cursing, playing frisbee while high, and wrestling with dogs in the mud is common practice.
His dad had made lunch, and although I wasn't too hungry after my huge breakfast, it smelled great and I definitely wanted to try it to make a good impression. He was making a Vietnamese concoction which he called "dirty soup". The broth was made with ginger, garlic, rice, green onions, and chicken broth, and the smell made my mouth water. My boyfriend warned me ahead of time: "There's liver in that soup, you might not want to have any."
"Nonsense," I remember telling him. "I love chicken liver."
In addition to all the delicious ingredients I mentioned, I soon discovered there were a few others. Squid, octopus (not bad, so far), a huge amount of pig liver (not the chicken liver I expected), and pig heart. I was a little put off, but I wanted to be polite and I will try anything once.
Contrary to what you may think about consuming internal organs, not every animal's liver is the same. The pig liver I had was oily, with a spongy, grainy texture. It fell apart in your mouth before you even chewed it. It was absolutely revolting. And while the pig heart was a rubbery, white tendon that had the texture of a condom, the liver was definitely the worst part. With every bite, my stomach churned, and I struggled to eat half the bowl. My boyfriend cheerfully gobbled down my leftovers while I felt a storm brewing in my traumatized tummy.
We visited for about an hour and I felt a little nauseated, but not too shabby. Then I felt a gurgle and knew instantly that the Grog Bog had come to claim what it was owed.
I wasn't in pain, but I had an overwhelming and panicky urge to shit. And unfortunately for me, it did not feel like a solid one – rather, I expected a fecal version of Mardi Gras dancing towards my colon. I felt my poor little butthole closing and opening as I tried to clench my ass cheeks together to avoid releasing any unbecoming gas. My boyfriend's little brother kept asking me to play football with him, but any physical activity would have coerced the poo from engorged lower intestine.
And yet I desperately did not want to shit at his dad's house. The downstairs bathroom is adjacent to the living room, and with the hardwood floors the echo of running water -- or any other sound from the bathroom -- can be heard by anyone sitting in the living room. I felt like his dad would be completely appalled by me destroying his ambient, pristine bathroom and would from that point on never accept me as his future daughter-in-law. (Yes, I am that paranoid. My boyfriend's mother is a ninety-six pound waif who looks like she maybe takes two rabbit-like shits a week, so I'm sure he would be horrified by my elephant loads.)
I wasn't stupid enough to hold it until I shit all over their couch, but I knew I had to take action to avoid any embarrassment. "Hey babe, are you ready to go soon?" I asked quietly.
He eyed me suspiciously and could tell something was wrong. We wrapped up the visit, and I even got a hug from future father-in-law (although it almost caused me to squeeze some into my panties). I knew I was home free.
As soon as we got outside I said, in shaky voice, "Drive to a gas station. Now!"
Boyfriend did what I asked, although he was probably questioning my sanity, wondering why I would rather go in a nasty gas station than his father's house. (To this day, he still does not get why I didn't want to poop there.) I unloaded my Grog Bog at a nearby WaWa. It was just as messy and raucous as I expected -- a nasty dump for even a gas station bathroom to handle.
My trumpeting farts echoed off the tile walls. The thought of his father hearing these sounds erupt from my anus made me cringe. "Thank-fucking-God I didn't shit at his dad's house!" I thought triumphantly.
After about three ear-shattering minutes, I had cleared out my intestines. I apologized profusely to my boyfriend for my rectum cutting short our visit.
"I told you not to have the soup," he said.
For the record, the bathroom at the WaWa was so filthy that I took a shower when I got home.
