An Intimate Portrait of My GI Innerworkings

The next time any of you, dear readers, needs to drop 100 pounds in a weekend, just hang out with me for a while. No, you won't be sweating to the oldies, a la our national treasure Richard Simmonds; you will be the voiding yourself through any available orifice, a la my weekend. (If the previous line didn't clue you in, this entry may get a little graphic.)

Thursday was a success. I went to work, went to softball practice, and went out for dinner. It was the sweet life, the kind led by free-spirited, twenty somethings on NBC sitcoms. Then, at 2 AM on Friday, I awoke to an unpleasant feeling in my stomach. It felt like I had accidentally swallowed a badger at supper, and only after 6 hours inside of me was he now angry enough to try to claw his way out. It was painful, but nothing was really happening. For about 30 minutes, I just sat on the bathroom floor and wondered if I needed some Pepto Bismol. Luckily, I didn't leave the house. Thank God I didn't leave the house. I can just imagine standing in the middle of an aisle at Walgreen's, looking at antacids, when suddenly... I don't even know how to describe it. Let's just say my digestive system went berzerk. Not only would that aisle at Walgreen's have to be closed off, but the people inside of it would be put down and NW Austin burned to the ground to prevent further degradation. Me? I'd be in some giant bug jar at the CDC. If this sounds like hyperbole, you clearly weren't around me on Friday.

If you've never had a '2 exits, no waiting' kinda sickness, I don't know how to explain it. Just imagine that every 5 minutes, you unleash a firehose of putrid, interestingly-colored stuff from an opening in your body. Sometimes, your body throws you a curveball and elects to go for two openings at once. It's dirty and stinky and incredibly unpleasant, and you have no control over it whatsoever. It's like being a baby again. Yes, that does humiliating, but then if someone had come up to me on Friday morning and offered to strap a diaper on me, I would not have objected. No, in fact, I would've wept with happiness and then paid that person. So, that's kind of what I had going on this weekend.

(For third party verification, you may contact Laura, who caught this bastard one day later. Notice how I said she caught it, not necessarily that I gave it to her.)

I felt well enough to go into work today. When I did, I happened to come across another of the guys at the user's group meeting last week. He asked me, "Hey, did you have a fever after the meeting last week?" How do you respond to that? After my weekend, 'yes' was not enough. I felt like I needed to light a torch, swing it around, and scream about the whole thing to accurately convey the intensity. The thing is, he knows because he went throught the same thing. A few other attendees came down with it also, and they all know. For 48 hours, we were transported to the Battle of the Bulge. Our enemy didn't attack us through mortar shells, but stomach gurgles. We had no Russians on our side, only Immodium AD and Gatorade. In the end, we won, I think; no one had to be hospitalized or anything. But after Friday, I sure don't feel like my winner. My bathroom certainly doesn't.