I'm normally too busy and too broke to attend many regular season baseball games, so when postseason play comes to the south side of Chicago, I like to make sure I can get to a game or two. It's pretty rare for there to be any baseball in Chicago in October, so if I manage to get tickets, I don't skimp on anything.

The first Division Series White Sox vs. Red Sox game was a great one. I'm not talking score, even though the good guys in black literally pounded the defending champs; I'm talking food. Comiskey Park, now US Cellular Field, or simply The Cell (I hate that name), has some of the best food in baseball. Inning after inning I indulged in all I could, as if my gut (and wallet) knew no bounds.

First inning: nachos with extra jalapeño peppers and two beers. Second inning: peanuts from the vendor (I ate about half with the shells on) and another beer. Third inning: two beers while I contemplated what else to eat. Fourth inning: a delicious bratwurst grilled with some onions and served with brown mustard and sauerkraut, washed down with another beer and some chips. Fifth inning: an overpriced margarita from the Cuervo guy who walks around with five premixed gallons on his back. Sixth inning: beer and a giant soft pretzel. I was pretty well stuffed at this point, and finally had time to watch the game, sipping my final beer.

It was late when I arrived home and I was thirsty. I didn't want water, and I was still feeling kind of full, so carbonated beverages really didn't sound too appealing, either. As I peered into the fridge I spied a mostly-empty jug of apple cider I'd purchased a little over a week before. This was the good stuff, the kind you get at the little stands out in the country. It was also non-pasteurized, which they aren't supposed to sell (at least in Illinois) anymore. But it had never given me any trouble before. I swirled the jug around to get the grit on the bottom re-suspended and poured myself a nice tall glass. After downing it in four large gulps I stumbled off to bed, not realizing that baseball was only the first sporting event of the night. I was soon to be treated to an amateur boxing match: a perilous bout pitting the dangerous food-and-cider combination against my guts.

I was wrestled from sleep as round one got underway. The combination of tainted cider and food quickly had my intestines on the ropes. My innards danced this way and that, gurgling and grunting under the cider-led assault. I sprang from the bed and made haste to the can. As I swung my ass over the bowl, round one was quickly ended with a one-two (mostly two) punch. A short fart was immediately followed by an ejection of hot liquid expelled with enough force that I felt like my intestines had literally been sucked out my ass. A pint or so of juice had exited in a matter of a few tenths of a second. My ass had not been prepared for the onslaught, and was still expelling hot air when the wave of fluid struck. It was in shock.

I sat for a minute or two, waiting for more, but only the faintest stirrings could be felt in my bowels. I wiped, I wiped the seat, and I wiped under the seat. The collateral damage was pretty severe, but I cleaned it well before heading back to bed. Before I flushed I noticed that the contents of the bowl looked suspiciously similar to the contents of the cider jug. Both contained a lot of granular solids under clear, brownish liquid. The only visible difference was that the toilet had a lot more granular solids.

No sooner had I solidly dozed off than the next round was announced. No pretty girl with a sign, no bell, definitely no referee -- this was to be an extreme round if ever there were. I sat straight up in bed feeling as if I'd been punched square in the gut and decided that the downstairs bathroom was the only place fitting the impending battle. Things were going to get ugly and I didn't want to wake the whole house.

The downstairs bathroom, referred to by realtors as a "powder room," is a miniscule little hole in the wall just large enough to house a sink and a toilet best suited for children and adults who stand less than four feet high. The only reason I haven't swapped out the stupid thing for a bigger one is that it's got the most powerful flush I've ever seen outside of the commercial variety. It would be well equipped to deal with whatever carnage was left when this battle was over.

The decision to move the brawl downstairs was a good one. The cider was taking its toll, but the guts weren't going down without a fight. A blast of hot liquid equal to that which had ended the previous round was quickly followed by a fart that reverberated in the small room like an overblown saxophone as my poor pucker struggled to maintain some sort of anal order. Alas, things were beyond my control. As much as I tried to slow the onslaught, wave after wave of putrid ciderslop -- periodically interrupted by loud, gassy trombone farts -- was flung forth from my seared rectum. And then, just as in round one, the fracas stopped as quickly as it had started. All quiet on the fecal front. I didn't wait before wiping. This stuff stung like I'd been given a sulfuric acid enema; and in the tiny room the stench was unbearable. I limped back to bed, my ass throbbing with every step.

I managed to make it until morning before the third, and thankfully final, round ensued. I was getting ready to step into the shower when ol' mister cider decided to have another whack at me. I swung my already naked ass over the bowl just as three long, involuntarily strong squirts of hot froth were ejected into the bowl with mere seconds of pause between them. It was as if my ass were reenacting the projectile vomit scene from Monty Python's The Meaning of Life. As soon as the onslaught ended, the irritation caused by the nasty goo forced me to wipe immediately. Fortunately, the gas had been expelled in round two, and I think everyone remained asleep, oblivious to the fact that a few quarts of vile slop had been so violently splattered into the bowl. At least no one had pounded on the door to check whether I was okay or if I had shit myself inside out.

I hopped in the shower, figuring a good scrubbing was in order. Refreshing as I expected the shower to be on my sore sphincter, the water actually burned. I think the liquid cider shit may have actually done some minor damage to the skin in my crack. I can only imagine what toll was taken on my intestines.