bombs away

i was sitting at my desk when i was siezed suddenly. it was BANDOR the fecal god and he had heaved his brown lightening bolt right into my guts. he had awakened a pastrami sandwich burrowing it's way through my fiery guts like a mutated mole with radiation sickness.

the day before: i went to a fine dining establishment called "the hat." true to the name, there's a giant neon hat hanging over the restaurant's roof. they've been weilding hot pastrami dip sandwiches for fifty years and they're pretty damn good at it. the sandwich is overstuffed with pastrami. it's so thick it looks like someone carved up porky the pig's knees and stuffed them into gift envelopes.

a food side note: what is pastrami? it's corned beef that's been smoked.

anyways, i swallowed the thing in two bites. i felt like the sarlac pit, slowly digesting things whole for the next thousand years. except in twenty four hours the sandwich was demanding release from my digestive tract.

it was one of those times where i had to walk quick and then stop, frozen in turd spasms. let the waves of pain pass and then accelerate 0 to 60 in nanoseconds. i probably stopped like 4 times on the way to the bathroom. i think some people thought i was doing the robot.

i hit the bathroom. first thing is: i pick the biggest stall. i don't know if i need all that room, but you never know. i put about four waxy-cowboy hats on the toilet seat to keep my legs from touching the seat. i can just see those little germs on the toilet seat, dancing, like a demonic rave, multiplying, gyrating, dividing, waiting to hook onto my drumstick thighs and kill me.

i didn't have to push, the thing climbed out on it's own. i could tell that it had hit that cut-out in the toilet cover. you know, the round flap you have to tear without ripping the whole toilet seat cover (an art in itself). i have a very god toilet ear. i can tell when something drops into the water or has landed on the paper by listening. sometimes to prevent splashback i'll float one sheet of toilet paper across the water's surface. that way the fall is "broken."

anyways, needless to say, i destroyed the bathroom, even though i did a courtesy flush. basically, as a policy of bathroom etiquitte, do not let the tootsie roll sit int he water while you clean the cave. poo-poo acts as a reverse urinal cake. instead of eating odors, it releases them into the air. once your frog jumps, send him down the pipes.

i tried to the leave the stall but i had to time it just right. people kept coming and going out of the bathroom. honest injun, the stink was so bad i didn't want to lay claim to it. i didn't want their view of me to be fouled by my festering guts, so i waited, with my pants down, staring through the crack in the door, waiting for them to leave. some guy was at the urinal for hours, squeezing out what sounded like a painful piss. minute little bursts, like a 99 cent squirt gun. his prostrate was probably scorching hot and overgrown, from too many venti latte's and diet cokes. poor bastard.

finally he left. i ran out of the bathroom and started washing my hands. some suit walked in and made a face and said: great balls of fire, who died?

i said: i think it was the arrowhead water guy.
suit: really?
me: yeah, he like waddled in clutching his guts.

then the suit looked down at my shoe--there was a toilet seat cover stuck to it. (holy shit! i'm an idiot)

with the steely dignity displayed by king louis XVI right before the french peasants chopped his head off, i kicked away the seat cover, and used a paper towel to open the door.

i don't spellcheck.