Meth Maintenance And The Shower Technique
There was a time in my life, years ago, when I had a little problem with narcotics. Who am I bullshitting -- I had a huge problem. As most of you probably know, opiates constipate you. And I was on the king of them all: Methadone. Yup, the junkie's cure-all, the panacea to heroin addiction, yadda yadda yadda. At the time I was subsisting pretty much wholly on Butterfinger bars, bacon-egg-and-cheese biscuits, cheeseburgers, chocolate Junior Tastykakes, breakfast cereal, beer, and orange iced tea. Yeah, I know, this is a diet that would make your average anus blow chunks multiple times a day. But bear with me.
I'd gotten into a nice little routine of crapping maybe once a week; and while that might cause your average pooper to gasp in horror, it really isn't a big deal in the world of Meth maintenance. I'd been on the program for a couple of years at this point and was pretty comfortable. But then I had an experience that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy (well, maybe...) -- one I will certainly never forget.
The following occurred over the course of a four-week period sometime in 2000. Week One: all is well in my anal nation. No action, no movement, no grumbling, nothing. Diet is the same as usual: refined sugar, animal fat, alcohol, milk, and narcotics. Not so much as a fart. Week Two: still no action, maybe a little gas, but just a squeaker or two. Diet is the same. Still no cause for alarm. Week Three: absolutely nothing happening. Gravity seems to be pulling on me just a little bit more than usual, though. Week Four: something is definitely wrong.
This is not human. I think there's some sort of life form inside me. It feels like a large beaver has burrowed its way though my o-ring into my intestines, died, and somehow become petrified like an old oak tree. Diet is the same, but now with the addition of large amounts of laxatives and fiber regularity drinks. Nothing's working.
At this point I knew I had A LOT of material in me. But I REALLY REALLY REALLY didn't want to go to the emergency room, for two reasons. Number one: the only thing I can think of that's worse and more embarrassing than telling a bunch of strangers about your impacted rectum is possibly going in for pryopism (for those of you who aren't familiar with horribly humiliating medical conditions, that's a boner that won't go away). And number two, I was absolutely terrified of what they might DO about it. My mind conjured up images of men in white coats with gleaming metal implements, their faces contorted in some horrible rictus, cackling like Skeletor, ready to probe my ass like some kind of alien abduction.
So I sat on the problem, literally. Then came that fateful night when I would get as close as a man can to understanding the pain of childbirth.
I was sitting in the basement of the house I was living in at the time, watching TV and smoking pot. The beast in my bowels had slowly but surely taken over pretty much my every waking thought. I'd been on the laxatives for almost a week and still nothing was happening at all. Time was running out, and I knew it. My dreams consisted of little tiny construction crews building a giant cinderblock-and-concrete football in my ass, complete with rebar and steel framing.
Then the ordeal started. I can't say it was very dramatic at first; I just somehow knew that it was time to sit on the toilet and try to pass the demon. No cramps or pain, just a slight pressure. So I lumbered to the bathroom and assumed the position as I'd done so many times before over the past month. To no avail.
I pushed. And at first, it was encouraging. I had achieved turtle head. Happy with the progress I'd made I pushed again, and that's when I knew there was a major problem. The iceberg that the Titanic hit was large enough to sink it, but the vast majority of that iceberg lay under the sea, where no one could see it. That's how it was with this particular turtle head. The monster that it was attached to was more like Godzilla than any turtle I've ever heard of -- and turtles can get pretty freaking big.
I squinted my eyes in determination, gripped the sink with my left hand and the towel rack with my right, and pushed for all I was worth, my mind flashing back to that scene in high school health class where they show you "the miracle of birth." The football, as I'll refer to it from now on, emerged another half an inch or so; but its width seemed to know no bounds, and it was hard as a rock.
It was at this point that the football seemed to become sentient, and made a decision of its own. It was coming out, whether I liked it or not. Panic struck me like a mortar shell. My little illusion of control shattered all around me. By now I was almost in tears. I knew there would be blood and tearing and burst arteries in my head if this continued. I was scared.
What happened then in that little bathroom I still to this day hardly believe. I fell forward off of the can onto my hands and knees, begging the anal gods for mercy. I crawled to the bathtub and flopped in, turning the shower on full blast and hot. Again, now on my hands and knees, the hot water splashing off my back and butt steaming up the room, I pushed. At this point I'm sure I was as red as a ripe tomato, but this thing, this creature, this albatross had to be liberated, no matter what the consequence.
I kept pushing -- and finally, the monster slowly crept forth. And I do mean slowly. It felt like a huge piece of concrete with little shards of glass sticking out of it inching its way out of my tormented bunghole. I was sure I was splitting in two; and when it finally made its exit, I moaned in pain and joy.
The football was rock hard, and massive. I gawked at it in disbelief. There was no way that something THAT massive had come out of my butt! But it had. I lay there breathing hard for a minute or two. And then that little voice came into my mind: "Now what are you going to do with it?:
I thought about putting it in the toilet, but there's no way in hell this thing was going to make it down. A quarter of it would've clogged even the most industrial commode. So I commenced to stomping it like grapes. Stomp, stomp, stomp. I pictured some documentary I'd seen on winemaking, with people in a giant wooden tub stomping on red grapes. Stomp, stomp, stomp. The tub started filling because part of the football had lodged in the drain hole, and brown water was rising quickly. For an hour I stomped and stomped this thing, sometimes having to drop to my knees to unclog the drain by hand, up to my hips in sewage. If only Mom could see me now.
After what seemed like forever, the final bit submitted to my relentless attack and went down the drain. I stayed in the shower and probably went through an entire bar of soap and a bottle of disinfectant. I emerged wrinkled like a prune, but smiling from ear to ear. The football was dead. I had won. Most of all I was relieved to not be strapped to some hospital gurney with a doctor digging in my ass like gopher and a bunch of young interns taking notes. I haven't had another experience even remotely like that one since, and I hope I never do.