Ice Cream Works Quick
Posted 08.15.2007 by Erica M (27)
I don't write here too often; in fact, I find myself to be more of a reader than a poo-er. Not to say that I haven't passed a few major incidents, it's just that none have been too noteworthy. But then, this happened. It's taken me two months to completely reconcile everything; and, well, I finally feel the need to share it with the poo-world.
I am lactose intolerant, and I'm not going to sugarcoat it: when I eat something with milk in it, I take the biggest, nastiest, most awful stomach-churning shits on the face of the earth. The pills don't help very much, so in reality, I've just gotten used to it.
I was at my buddy Greg's house, celebrating his birthday. Cake, ice cream, the works! Greg only lives about five minutes away from me, so I thought it safe to share in the ice cream festivities and then hop in my car to go home and drop a deuce. I enjoyed the ice cream and cake with everyone else and thought I had about fifteen or twenty minutes before the pains would start and about a half hour before I needed to go.
I couldn't have been more wrong.
About four minutes later, I was completely doubled over. According to witnesses, I was green at one moment, pale and stricken-looking the next. Assuring my friends that I had merely come down with the flu, that I was tired, and that I was going home, I hurriedly stumbled to my car.
These pains were the worst, of the most horrible, terrible, lightning-bolt gaseous matter variety. They came in waves, much like contractions before giving birth. I turned the fans to high blast and began to clench. I clenched like I've never been able to before. Swerving over our Lancaster Country, Pennsylvania, hills and back roads, the dial on my meter crossed seventy. Good thing there is never a cop on these back roads. Never.
And then, suddenly, as I rounded a bend and floored the gas, I felt the tip of the log crowning and I knew that this was it: my defining moment. And then, suddenly, something else happened: flashing bright blue and white lights in my rearview mirror. Instantly my stomach began to flutter, and my already sweaty forehead dripped, and in my absolute terror, I couldn't resist the urge any longer. This was no longer a clenching matter. I shit myself.
That's right. There in my car at eight PM on a Tuesday, after being chased by a cop: I shit myself. And not just any shit, but a giant, green messy liquid, a putrid death-defying smell. It was everywhere. All over me, the seat, my clothes, up my back, and on the door.
So, damn near hysterical, I pulled over. I was crying and sobbing, shaking, and all those emotions you fake when a cop pulls you over except for the fact that I was mortified and beyond all senses of decency. As he strolled to the car, I reached onto the seat next to me and pulled out my license; but as he leaned into the window, the smell hit him first. Then the sight. In a whisper, he told me to "watch the speed in these parts" and that I was free to go. He pretty much ran to his car, got in, and left the scene before I did.
Dumbfounded, I turned my engine back on and slowly continued home. I realize that I had been traveling over seventy in a thirty-five -- double the speed limit and grounds for losing my license for at least three months in Pennsylvania.
I think it's safe to say we both learned a valuable lesson that night.
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