One of my parents' friends was a cook at a local Chinese restaurant. And man, could he cook some mean meals. One fateful day, as a bit of a 'surprise' for us -- well, for me, at least -- he came to the house and cooked for us. Amazing things came out of our kitchen: sweet and sour chicken balls, wontons, that black bean stuff... all delicious to the utmost. And near the end of what had to be his best dish yet, he came out with four tiny little bowls, each barely big enough to fit more than a large gulp. The aroma that came out of them was heavenly.

What was this beautiful concoction? Bok choy soup. It tasted as good as it smelled. So I went for seconds, and then thirds. And then, luckily, I was full.

A couple of hours passed, and it began to feel like someone had stuck one of those long balloons into my gut and was inflating it in my bowels -- and not very slowly, either. It went from discomforting to painful to downright agonizing, accompanied by some of the sickest-sounding bowel thunder I had ever had. I knew something was up, but I wasn't too entirely sure what, for I was young and still new to the whole idea of bowel disasters.

Bok choy soup, as I discovered, is known for its devastating effects on one's bowels. No ramming of the southern gates, no battering of the hatches, nothing. All it took was a single, little cough.

In about half a second flat, I was up off that couch, one hand clutching my butt in an attempt to hold back the mudslide. I made it to the bathroom, no waiting; but in my haste to sit on the toilet, I sat too far back.

Having not quite yet hit my teenage growth spurt, I was considerably shorter than most kids my age; and, well, my bunghole was pressed flat against the back of the seat, with my cheeks pinched together to make a perfect little barrier, meaning there was only one way for the matter to escape: backwards.

What followed was a cat-ass-trophe.

It sprayed backwards, all over the tank's base, and down around the bowl's exterior. It was powerful enough to force my cheeks apart like the Red Sea, which meant that at least some of the torrent was unleashed into the porcelain lake. But as to the rest, it was on my back, on the bowl, on the seat, on the tank, and on the floor; some splatter was even on the side of the tub, a good eight inches from the can.

Bowl of bok choy soup: three dollars.
Roll of paper towel: two dollars.
Having to fess up to your parents you backed up the sewage line because of all the paper towel you used to clean up the explosion? Priceless.