It is easy to determine the quality of the food you eat by the manner in which it leaves your body. You know what I mean.
I had to drive to Marquette, MI recently, and it’s a long drive—7 plus hours solo. I wanted to make good time so I left early. One of my many foibles includes the delicious taste of breakfast sandwiches from fast food joints. I love them despite fully understanding how terrible they are for my health. Nevertheless, on this morning I order a combo sausage egg croissant—actually two of them. I am a growing boy after all. The order also included, per my choice, a large cup of coffee.
For those you do not drink coffee, let me point out something. Nothing is a better expectorant for one’s bowels than coffee. Dulcolax ain’t got shit on coffee. It seems to stimulate, loosen and hasten all at once.
So after I eat my glorious American morning breakfast, speeding down, or rather up I-75, I feel as though I can evacuate my bowels with prejudice, but cling to some notion of “making good time” and thus leave the fetid stew a brew in my bowels. However, being that I am seated, it seems that the urge is blunted, if ever so slightly. No way could I be walking around with the steaming stew.
Well, I drive for a good three hours and need to stop for gas. The urge has sort of settled a bit by this time. I would not say I was comfortable, but at some point it became manageable. I can deal with it, as the urge had not increased in any significant way.
But once I pulled into the local gas station and before I even got out of the car, my bowels dispatched a warning shot down my ass cheeks. “Oh fuck,” I thought as I strained every available ass muscle to pinch off the rest of the lava flow. I heard my bowels gurgle.
How did my bowels know that I was close to a toilet? I was fine for hours, and then once I stop, wham, the gathering masses make their presence felt. And felt in a burning way. It’s amazing.
So I walk into the station to relive myself and find the bathroom being cleaned. “Christ almighty,” I think. Still straining my ass cheeks, I walk out and begin pumping the gas. I hear gurgling noises. I am being warned.
I walk back in and the lady cleaning informs me that the women’s bathroom is open and that I should use it.
So I quickly rush into the nearest stall and let the deluge begin. It was a torrent of several burning steams. More mushy than solid, like milky oatmeal. Only this oatmeal burned as it left. And the smell. Christ the smell. Vile, simply vile.
Anyway, I am oddly feeling good despite my asshole feeling like lava had spewed from it, when the bathroom door opens. The crack between the bathroom door and the wall was wide enough to get a good look. I see a fat, meaty white calf through the crack. The foot was jammed into a shoe that looked like it was straining to stay together. The shoe laces were missing and the tongue was distended out like panting dog. Before she goes further, the attendant informs her that I am in the bathroom. Out goes the gross calf.
So I am still sitting in my own stench, forcing the last stubborn stew from my body, when the fat, milky, gross calf comes back in.
“Are you still in here?”
“Did you see me leave?” I am not sure else I am supposed to say. I wonder if her bowels were threatening her, too.
Eventually, I get up to leave the stench, and turn around to flush. And there I see what came from me. Not a pleasant sight, to be sure. Caked onto the bowl, just above the water line, is a nice nasty splotch of shit, like brown mashed potatoes—homemade, given the impressive lumps. It was like the shit exploded from me and went everywhere. Not down, but out, to the right and left and everywhere in between. The equivalent of G-force power. Nasty.
The toilet was more of the residential type as opposed to those industrial ones that seem to able to suck anything down. No this one was nice and sedate. I flushed and the gentle, creek stream of water flowed leisurely down over the shitty lump barely taking anything with it. The shitty lump was too strong for the flow. I flushed again. Stubborn was the lumpy shit, and it did not move.
There was no way I was washing the shitty lump from the bowl—that was the cleaning lady’s job. Besides, it’s always nice to leave presents.
I left and smiled at the vile old fat lady, who was languishing outside the door. I can only imagine her reaction as she looked at what I left her. First the smell, like whiffing ammonia and having to violently jerk your head away from it, then the awesome, shitty lump. I giggled all the way to the bridge thinking about it.
Showing posts with label funny. Show all posts
Showing posts with label funny. Show all posts
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Romanticism and the Open Road
I have grown up believing in a romantic view of the open road and driving long distances. You know that prevailing idea-the open road, wind in your hair, capriciously going where you choose, meeting interesting and provocative people, seeing cool things-that horseshit view. Perhaps, “On the Road” and “Thelma and Louise” colored that perception; although admittedly I never read “On The Road” and it’s not in my queue and “Thelma and Louise” had, how shall I put it, not a great ending, but nevertheless still this romantic view of driving across this country prevailed in my thoughts. That is, however, until I did-several God damn times.
It is my intention to clear up this perception, using my most recent experience to help elucidate those who may otherwise be ill-informed. You see, I have driven from Las Vegas to Michigan and back; prior to that I did the Michigan to New Mexico and back-Michigan to Phoenix and back; New Mexico to North Carolina and back. Fuck, that’s a lot of driving. Yes, I do fly too. My experience is vast and unparalleled.
Let me be perfectly clear, nothing, and I mean nothing, is romantic or more generally, remotely pleasurable in driving long distances. In fact, it is a horrendous experience, replete with an aching ass and back, immense boredom, punctuated with bouts of sheer terror or agitation, and feeling generally shitty. Quite a confluence of emotions. Let me explain:
Aching Back and Ass:
Sitting for long periods of time exerts a fair amount of pressure on the ass and tends to cut off the circulation in the legs. In fact, I heard somewhere that people should walk around on long flights to encourage circulation in the legs, lest serious medical conditions develop, like blood clots. So one tries to lean on one ass check for a few hours, then shift over to the other ass check, but this is hardly effective.
The back, more specifically the spine, is not supposed to be in the C-shape that invariable it is in while seated-it should be in an S-shape. Hours after hours of seating makes the back ache and I swear I could feel my kidneys throbbing, though that might have been more to the road diet than posture—perhaps a combination of the two. (More on the road diet later.) But, one might say, you may remedy this with pillows and other aids in an attempt to alleviate the pressure and ameliorate the poster. Indeed, I did employ the use of pillows in an attempt to force my back into the C-Shape that it should be in normally. That has the effect of making one look like you have a stick jammed up your ass. Oh what the other road companions must have thought driving past, to see a very erect driver, head almost hitting the roof of the car. “What the fuck is up with that guy,” they must have thought. But still, one cannot be in that state for too long; it is not comfortable.
The shifting from ass check to ass check does little to succor, so one must be more adventurous. At varying points, depending largely on the terrain ahead, I would stretch my right leg out from the driver’s side foot area, across the stick and console into the passenger’s side foot area. This allows, as I pointed out, to stretch at least one leg, but also to air out the balls—a brief respite of relief in an otherwise hot and sticky environment, if you know what I mean. But this creates problems. Cruise control is nice, but of course, the other driver’s incessantly conspire against using cruise control by cutting in front of you just before you pass them, as they try to get around that semi. Most of the Interstate is but two lanes, thus drivers are forever cutting in front of you, as you are happily cruising at 80, right foot in the passenger’s side, balls airing comfortably. This happens all the time. Try quickly swinging your foot over to apply the brakes lest you smash into the fucking Toyota that has the bumper sticker “Bush/Cheney: Real American Heroes.” Double fucking assholes—cutting in front of me and participating wrongly in the democratic process. However, after several near misses, I did become adroit using my left foot to handle the braking and what not.
Immense Boredom:
I have long invited and recommended to those in similar driving plights to use “books on tape” to assuage the sheer boredom that accompanies hours and hours and hours and hours and hours of driving. Sometimes, it can help pass the time. But that has limits and if you select a boring book, well boring and more boring does little to pass the time. I had Moby Dick and, errr, despite my literary education, thought the book indefatigably boring. Christ, on and on about different whales. Shit, come to the point, Melville. Despite a noble effort, could not finish. Thus, I was left to the radio.
I am amazed at how many religious and conservative talk shows there are. These people hate everything not white and cornbread feed. Jesus was there with me in the car, if I ascribed to the dogma; all I had to do was open up my heart. I did open up, but let loose a fart instead. Jesus smells like shit, methinks.
At times, nothing could be heard on the radio-AM or FM. I hit scan and let it run until something happened. Through large parts of Utah especially, nothing could be heard. I would think the Mormons could penetrate every where, industrious as they are.
But mostly there was nothing to do and nothing to listen to. Thus, thoughts were all that was left. Mine being unimaginative and pedestrian, I was left to sheer boredom. So bored dental work would not have induced me out of the ennui.
Bouts of sheer terror and agitation:
Emotions, as with most things, are often more clearly rendered and comprehended when immediately juxtaposed with its closely-related opposite relative. Thus, while humming along at 82, using but one finger to control the vehicle, mental activity gone into a reptilian lethargy, a truck casually meanders into your lane, I fully appreciated the terror of becoming a driving accident statistic.
But not all situations were as dramatically illustrated. Consider this, for example: after driving all day and into the night, I thought I saw little creatures on the side of the highway and occasion run onto the road. Sometimes, it was the simple reflection of the car’s headlights and my brain filling in the rest. So I would slow down, swerve over or say, “What the hell did I hit.” But nothing was there, ever.
What’s ever more thrilling is driving through the mountains at night. All you can do is put your hands at 10 and 2 and hug the inside lane. Signs that say “Exit for Runaway Trucks” do nothing to comfort the weary driver.
Agitation comes into play almost immediately following terror. For instance, when the meandering moron moves into my lane forcing me to left-footedly jam on the brakes, I discover agitation instantaneously following the terror. Of course, sometimes the agitation is more general in its application and development.
There are those who wish to drive in extreme excess of the speed limit. The 90 plus people. As for my 4-cylinder, that is not in my capabilities, but even if it were, I would not go but 7 or 8 miles above the speed limit. Old fucking man, you think, get the lead out. I have been labeled such. Yet, that seems sufficient and keeps me from getting speeding tickets. But as semi-trucks most go 55 to 60 and me wanting to hum along at 82, airing my balls out, oscillating between left and right ass check, it does not take long to see that on a 2-lane highway, problems can develop.
When I came upon a slower moving vehicle and moved lanes to get around him, inevitably I would look up to see some Mustang or Land Rover in my read view mirror riding my ass. Of course, I would not release my cruise control, so overtaking the slower truck, did not happen quickly. Slowly I would get around, but at the cruise control’s pace, this could take a full minute or maybe more. All the while, getting my ass eaten out by the fucking Mustang.
Feeling Generally Shitty:
Feeling generally shitty should be no surprise given all the joys that driving across country affords one. However, there is more to feeling generally shitty then an aching back and a sweating ass crack. Let’s review my road diet: McDonald’s, Burger King, Wendy’s and Taco Bell. Throw in some coffee and donuts from the gas station and no wonder I felt great.
Super Size Me no doubt. Let’s see day one:
Breakfast: Mickey D’s breakfast burrito combo—which tasted like shit
Lunch/Dinner: A Baconnator combo from Wendy’s. A had a diet soda, though. I could begin feeling my arteries clogging. Plus coffee.
Day Two:
Breakfast: Burger King-breakfast burrito combo. It also tasted like shit.
Lunch: I thought, healthy, eat something good for you. Taco bell soft taco supreme combo meal, with a Mexi-melt to boot. Wolfed down almost before I got onto the Interstate.
Dinner: 10 piece McChicken nuggets with a double cheeseburger, but no fries, fucker. Fries and bad for you and well, this was a little, feeble attempt at being healthy.
Needless to say I suppose, after this road diet, the Tracer’s cabin was, errr, gaseous to noxious.
It is difficult to eat right on the road. Convenience and ubiquity are strong influences when you are trying to drive 2,000 miles in a couple of days. Being delayed while you eat a Chicken Cesar salad only means longer time on the road. Shit no. “I have a number 3 with a diet,” so I can be back on the road with my aching back, sweating ass, sheer boredom and fucking asshole drivers. Terrific.
Of course, with a diet like that finding the appropriate place to vent all that healthy food became an immediate need/then uncomfortable reality. Thank goodness for the clean Mikey D’s somewhere in Utah.
How Goddamn romantic is that? You tell me.
It is my intention to clear up this perception, using my most recent experience to help elucidate those who may otherwise be ill-informed. You see, I have driven from Las Vegas to Michigan and back; prior to that I did the Michigan to New Mexico and back-Michigan to Phoenix and back; New Mexico to North Carolina and back. Fuck, that’s a lot of driving. Yes, I do fly too. My experience is vast and unparalleled.
Let me be perfectly clear, nothing, and I mean nothing, is romantic or more generally, remotely pleasurable in driving long distances. In fact, it is a horrendous experience, replete with an aching ass and back, immense boredom, punctuated with bouts of sheer terror or agitation, and feeling generally shitty. Quite a confluence of emotions. Let me explain:
Aching Back and Ass:
Sitting for long periods of time exerts a fair amount of pressure on the ass and tends to cut off the circulation in the legs. In fact, I heard somewhere that people should walk around on long flights to encourage circulation in the legs, lest serious medical conditions develop, like blood clots. So one tries to lean on one ass check for a few hours, then shift over to the other ass check, but this is hardly effective.
The back, more specifically the spine, is not supposed to be in the C-shape that invariable it is in while seated-it should be in an S-shape. Hours after hours of seating makes the back ache and I swear I could feel my kidneys throbbing, though that might have been more to the road diet than posture—perhaps a combination of the two. (More on the road diet later.) But, one might say, you may remedy this with pillows and other aids in an attempt to alleviate the pressure and ameliorate the poster. Indeed, I did employ the use of pillows in an attempt to force my back into the C-Shape that it should be in normally. That has the effect of making one look like you have a stick jammed up your ass. Oh what the other road companions must have thought driving past, to see a very erect driver, head almost hitting the roof of the car. “What the fuck is up with that guy,” they must have thought. But still, one cannot be in that state for too long; it is not comfortable.
The shifting from ass check to ass check does little to succor, so one must be more adventurous. At varying points, depending largely on the terrain ahead, I would stretch my right leg out from the driver’s side foot area, across the stick and console into the passenger’s side foot area. This allows, as I pointed out, to stretch at least one leg, but also to air out the balls—a brief respite of relief in an otherwise hot and sticky environment, if you know what I mean. But this creates problems. Cruise control is nice, but of course, the other driver’s incessantly conspire against using cruise control by cutting in front of you just before you pass them, as they try to get around that semi. Most of the Interstate is but two lanes, thus drivers are forever cutting in front of you, as you are happily cruising at 80, right foot in the passenger’s side, balls airing comfortably. This happens all the time. Try quickly swinging your foot over to apply the brakes lest you smash into the fucking Toyota that has the bumper sticker “Bush/Cheney: Real American Heroes.” Double fucking assholes—cutting in front of me and participating wrongly in the democratic process. However, after several near misses, I did become adroit using my left foot to handle the braking and what not.
Immense Boredom:
I have long invited and recommended to those in similar driving plights to use “books on tape” to assuage the sheer boredom that accompanies hours and hours and hours and hours and hours of driving. Sometimes, it can help pass the time. But that has limits and if you select a boring book, well boring and more boring does little to pass the time. I had Moby Dick and, errr, despite my literary education, thought the book indefatigably boring. Christ, on and on about different whales. Shit, come to the point, Melville. Despite a noble effort, could not finish. Thus, I was left to the radio.
I am amazed at how many religious and conservative talk shows there are. These people hate everything not white and cornbread feed. Jesus was there with me in the car, if I ascribed to the dogma; all I had to do was open up my heart. I did open up, but let loose a fart instead. Jesus smells like shit, methinks.
At times, nothing could be heard on the radio-AM or FM. I hit scan and let it run until something happened. Through large parts of Utah especially, nothing could be heard. I would think the Mormons could penetrate every where, industrious as they are.
But mostly there was nothing to do and nothing to listen to. Thus, thoughts were all that was left. Mine being unimaginative and pedestrian, I was left to sheer boredom. So bored dental work would not have induced me out of the ennui.
Bouts of sheer terror and agitation:
Emotions, as with most things, are often more clearly rendered and comprehended when immediately juxtaposed with its closely-related opposite relative. Thus, while humming along at 82, using but one finger to control the vehicle, mental activity gone into a reptilian lethargy, a truck casually meanders into your lane, I fully appreciated the terror of becoming a driving accident statistic.
But not all situations were as dramatically illustrated. Consider this, for example: after driving all day and into the night, I thought I saw little creatures on the side of the highway and occasion run onto the road. Sometimes, it was the simple reflection of the car’s headlights and my brain filling in the rest. So I would slow down, swerve over or say, “What the hell did I hit.” But nothing was there, ever.
What’s ever more thrilling is driving through the mountains at night. All you can do is put your hands at 10 and 2 and hug the inside lane. Signs that say “Exit for Runaway Trucks” do nothing to comfort the weary driver.
Agitation comes into play almost immediately following terror. For instance, when the meandering moron moves into my lane forcing me to left-footedly jam on the brakes, I discover agitation instantaneously following the terror. Of course, sometimes the agitation is more general in its application and development.
There are those who wish to drive in extreme excess of the speed limit. The 90 plus people. As for my 4-cylinder, that is not in my capabilities, but even if it were, I would not go but 7 or 8 miles above the speed limit. Old fucking man, you think, get the lead out. I have been labeled such. Yet, that seems sufficient and keeps me from getting speeding tickets. But as semi-trucks most go 55 to 60 and me wanting to hum along at 82, airing my balls out, oscillating between left and right ass check, it does not take long to see that on a 2-lane highway, problems can develop.
When I came upon a slower moving vehicle and moved lanes to get around him, inevitably I would look up to see some Mustang or Land Rover in my read view mirror riding my ass. Of course, I would not release my cruise control, so overtaking the slower truck, did not happen quickly. Slowly I would get around, but at the cruise control’s pace, this could take a full minute or maybe more. All the while, getting my ass eaten out by the fucking Mustang.
Feeling Generally Shitty:
Feeling generally shitty should be no surprise given all the joys that driving across country affords one. However, there is more to feeling generally shitty then an aching back and a sweating ass crack. Let’s review my road diet: McDonald’s, Burger King, Wendy’s and Taco Bell. Throw in some coffee and donuts from the gas station and no wonder I felt great.
Super Size Me no doubt. Let’s see day one:
Breakfast: Mickey D’s breakfast burrito combo—which tasted like shit
Lunch/Dinner: A Baconnator combo from Wendy’s. A had a diet soda, though. I could begin feeling my arteries clogging. Plus coffee.
Day Two:
Breakfast: Burger King-breakfast burrito combo. It also tasted like shit.
Lunch: I thought, healthy, eat something good for you. Taco bell soft taco supreme combo meal, with a Mexi-melt to boot. Wolfed down almost before I got onto the Interstate.
Dinner: 10 piece McChicken nuggets with a double cheeseburger, but no fries, fucker. Fries and bad for you and well, this was a little, feeble attempt at being healthy.
Needless to say I suppose, after this road diet, the Tracer’s cabin was, errr, gaseous to noxious.
It is difficult to eat right on the road. Convenience and ubiquity are strong influences when you are trying to drive 2,000 miles in a couple of days. Being delayed while you eat a Chicken Cesar salad only means longer time on the road. Shit no. “I have a number 3 with a diet,” so I can be back on the road with my aching back, sweating ass, sheer boredom and fucking asshole drivers. Terrific.
Of course, with a diet like that finding the appropriate place to vent all that healthy food became an immediate need/then uncomfortable reality. Thank goodness for the clean Mikey D’s somewhere in Utah.
How Goddamn romantic is that? You tell me.
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