I wrote a post called the The First Pregnant Man in which I mentioned that I went mad with desire for food. I put on an eating exhibition the likes of which hadn’t been seen in quite some time.
If you are sensitive to bathroom humor or similar items you might want to skip the rest of this post because this is going to fall in the too much information for some of you.
The problem with eating like that is not just the caloric intake, but the radioactive fall out that comes along with it. My body just won’t put up with it any more and after a while it decides that the best thing to do is to punish me for my iniquities.
This is one of the reasons why I don’t eat spicy food all that often anymore. I still very much enjoy it but the result is most unpleasant.
There was a point in time when I had a lot of trouble accepting that I couldn’t do the things I used to do anymore and like so many other people I engaged in a bad case of denial and tried to maintain my old habits.
For a while it had mixed results and then came the night of the Chicken Vindaloo.
I was out with friends at a new Indian restaurant. I’d provide the name but if they knew that I was still alive they might come after me with pitchforks and I’d rather not go through that again.
It started out innocently enough. I ordered a plain water, medium dry and hold the ice. As the waiter went around the table asking for our order I asked for a recommendation and he recommended the Chicken Vindaloo.
That sounded good to me so I asked him to bring me a plate. He smiled and asked if I wanted the spicy version. I smiled back and asked him how spicy it was.
“I can make it so spicy you’ll have problems tomorrow morning,” he said with that same Cheshire cat grin.
That was enough of a challenge to me to accept and so I did. If only I had considered my situation more carefully. You see I was in a small restaurant that offered a single restroom for all of the patrons.
I hate places like that. They make me uncomfortable and I tend to avoid them like the plague, but not that night. Nope, I was feeling bulletproof, invincible and nothing anyone said or did was going to stop me from enjoying my evening.
A short time later the waiter returned with our order and I began to enjoy my Chicken Vindaloo. It was great, just fabulous. I was quite pleased with my decision and dug into my meal with great relish and enthusiasm.
It was a mistake.
I hadn’t been eating for more than ten minutes or so when I heard/felt a familiar rumble emanate from my belly. Apparently it was loud enough that the others at the table heard it too. Concerned looks were pointed in my direction but I smiled and waved them off. No need to be worried, this was nothing.
Seconds later I realized it was more than nothing and I flew out of my seat, vaulted over two tables and spun around two waiters. I needed that bathroom and I needed it NOW! Fortune smiled upon me, it was empty.
I jumped inside locked the door and fumbled for my belt like a newlywed on his wedding night. For a moment my fingers lost all coordination and I hopped up and down begging for a second longer. Finally I flipped it off and jumped onto the toilet.
Splash! For the first time in my life I cursed a man for leaving the toilet seat up, but that was the least of my worries. My entire rear end felt like it was on fire and I was most unhappy.
Simultaneously there was a knock on the door and a voice asking me if I was ok. It was the last thing I wanted to hear and I responded accordingly. In my best pirate voice I growled:
“There do be flames shooting out of my ass. It is a good thing that there do be water in the toilet. Arrgh!”
This must have made a great impact upon them as I heard/felt them step backwards and fall down on the floor.
For an undetermined amount of time I unhappily savaged the porcelain goddess and cried out to the heavens begging for relief. It was like a scene from one of those Lifetime for women movies. I alternately laughed and cried.
Finally the storm ended and I gingerly stood up and readied myself to exit the door. With great trepidation I reached out for the handle and turned it to the right. A soft push on the door and I was blessed with cool fresh air and the sweet savory scent of freedom.
I must have been quite a sight because as I shuffled back to the table a path opened for me. People moved out of the way as if I was Moses parting the Red Sea. When I got there I found a white take out box that had been used to collect the remnants of my Chicken Vindaloo.
It took great effort and care to pick that box up. I knew that the initial bout with the storm was over and that it would be dangerous to do anything that would upset the delicate ecosystem that had been established in my gut.
Outside in the cool night air a homless man approached and asked me for some help. In response I gave him my Chicken Vindaloo and wished him well. I don’t know what happened to that guy. I don’t know if he had better luck or if I was the only lucky one.
All I know is that the car ride home was fraught with suspense. I had to make many stops, but I don’t think that I care to relive those or to share anymore of the story of the night I had the Chicken Vindaloo.
You’ll have to excuse me now, my stomach is starting to hurt.