As I was driving to work today, my mind reverted to the Super Bowl.Then I began to day-dream about all the different Super Bowl parties I've attended.
One Super Bowl party, hosted by a chef, had this expansive hot-dog buffet bar where you could put anything you wanted on the top of your dogs, including peanut butter and banana peppers.
Another party was a bit like Sodom and Gomorrah complete with loose women, plenty of booze, bloodshot eyes and a bunch of 40-and 50- year old males snorting lines of blow in the upstairs master bedroom.
And yet another Super Bowl party served as a significant turning point in my life: my move to Cleveland to start a family with my beautiful wife-to-be. (Insert Awwwwwww sound here)
Oh yeah, and another Super Bowl party caused me to be constipated for seven days.
Please. Please. Let me explain.
The year was 2003. The Oakland Raiders were preparing to take on the virtually, indestructible Tamba Bay Buccaneers in Super Bowl XXXVII.
As it turned out, my next-door neighbors who, coincidentally were my best friends, decided to have a Super Bowl party. Being the hoity-toity folks that they were, they decided to make it a fondue party. They would take care of everything. All I had to do was show up. I was beginning to like this party already!
For all of those unaware, fondue is a hot dish which consists of dipping fried meats, bread, fruit and cheese into various hot cheeses, butters and other sauces including chocolate.
It was halftime, the Bucs were ahead 20-3, and the fondue party had begun. We dipped. We ate. We filled our tummies to the brim. Then we said "Fuck it" and ate some more.
The Super Bowl had ended. Tamba Bay creamed the Raiders 48-21. Everyone had just made some great memories that would last a lifetime.
However, my painful memory was about to begin.
When I awoke the next morning, I still felt bloated. It felt like I had swallowed a packet of cement, drank some water and hopped into a cement mixer for an hour or two. I'm not sure, but I imagine this is what it felt like to be in the early stages of pregnancy.
"No worries," I thought. "It'll all come out later today."
As it turned out. It didn't.
As it turned out, another day went by.
And then another day. And then another day.
Still, nothing came out.
I was constipated. Not a little constipated. A lot constipated.
"Damn you, fondue. Damn you!"
Oh yes, my friends, I was still eating. But, not much. Instead of stuffing my face with mashed potatoes, italian subs and pizza, I was choosing meals with high hopes of pooping on my mind. Salads, soups and apples were now at the top of my list. Heck, I even ran out to Giant Eagle and grabbed the constipation staple: RAISIN BRAN.
But, nothing worked. Sometimes I would feel something gurgling below and would take off to the restroom. But, by the time I got there. I would grunt, groan, gasp and push to no avail. My poop hopes were a distant memory.
Oh sure, I squeezed out a couple kimmie poops, small brown turds resembling tiny pebbles. But, four days without a consistent bowel movement was taking its toll on my body. My jogs weren't too fantastic. I was lethargic. At times, I felt a bit sick. My mind began play tricks on me, too. Especially at night.
As I would lie in bed, I began imagining my intestines getting bigger and bigger and backing up further and further all the way to my stomach. I thought, if I was constipated long enough, would poop begin to come out of my mouth?
I had also heard rumors that sometimes constipated people had to get operated on. Doctors would have to, literally, pull the turds out of your body due to the fact that you can't shit them out.
That particular image got me a little scared. I began to freak out that I would never poop again. Either that or have a colostomy bag put in.
I decided to call a friend.
"What's up?" he said.
"I can't poop."
"Really? How long?"
"Four days going on five."
"No shit?"
"No shit indeed."
"Hmmm."
There was a brief silence.
"Dude," he perked up. "I've got the cure."
"What?" I asked. "Please help me."
"You need to get some coke."
"Coca-cola?"
"No, man. Cocaine."
"Really?"
"Yeah man," he said. "A couple lines will have you on the toilet crapping in no time."
"No shit?"
"I shit you not."
I hung up. Cocaine as a laxative? Hmmmm. Sounded like a great idea. Hell I was willing to try anything at this point in my constipation. Plus, on the bright side, I could get a buzz while I crapped on the toilet. Not a bad deal at all if you ask me.
Sadly, I didn't have any 'coke connections'. And, besides hanging out at gay bars, I wouldn't even know where to begin to find some. After much deliberation, I decided to not take this avenue to cure my constipation.
Sometimes when I enter a library or bookstore I have a distinct the urge to poop. That week, I think I visited Barnes and Noble 10 different times to 'fake browse' the store with hopes that my intestines would get a kickstart.
Nope. Nada. Didn't work.
I started to worry. I started to get scared. I wanted this freaking five-day fondue out of my intestines.
That's when I got desperate. That's when I took this poop problem into my own hands. On day five, I finally broke down. I might have even cried. I grabbed my keys and ran to the supermarket. Drastic times called for drastic measures. So I stocked up on all the constipation essentials including:
- Stool Softeners
- Enemas
- Magnesium Citrate
- Suppositories
First I tried, the stool softeners. Nothing.
Second, I tried the enema. Nothing. However, the picture of me with my legs up in the air and squirting liquid up my butt was probably priceless.
Third, I tried the suppositories. Same result as the enema, but with burning. It felt like I was sticking hot coals up my anus.
Finally, on a tip from my mom, on day seven I tried the saline laxative, magnesium citrate. It's the colored stuff in the jar (green, red or yellow) that you can purchase in the laxative aisle.
I drank the whole thing. I felt like Ponce de León guzzling water from the Fountain of Youth.
Then I waited....and waited....and waited. Four hours later, nothing happened. So I decided to go on a run.
As I started my run, all of a sudden I felt a gurgling in my tummy. Then, a pang of pain shot from my gut.
It was time. I was going to give birth to some turds.
"Should I call someone?" I thought to myself before I realized how stupid of an idea that would be.
I knew I had to find a toilet pronto or the concrete road was going to be painted brown. I hightailed it home.
I pulled down my sweatpants, double-stepped it up to the steps and ran to the toilet, hopped in the air and, in super-slo-motion, my bare ass landed upon the throne.
Accordong to Genesis, on the seventh day, having completed the heavens and the earth, God took a break and used this special day to bless and sanctify his work.
On my seventh day, I pooped like I had never pooped before.
Thanks Mom.
Thanks Magnesium Citrate.
And Fuck You Fondue!
