Wednesday, June 30, 2004

A charming anecdote. Did I ever tell you my worst diarrhea story? The time I went to Hawaii after suffering from internal hemorrhoids for the first (and only) time in my life? You know, the time I couldn't poop for a week and I got inside that slick aluminum tube and crossed the ocean to that tropical paradise.

Once I got there the horrible condition continued. Touring the sites of Honolulu with Justin wasn't all that enjoyable since I was lugging around last week's toast, cereal, hummous, catsup, a peach or two, some corn, and who knows what else. Finally I said to Justin, "I need to go a drugstore!" and he watched as I bought that miracle elixir, Ex-Lax (sidenote- the original headquarters of Ex-Lax is just up the street from my friend Les's place in Brooklyn). One pill and all I had to do was wait. Sure enough a few hours later I was blissfully cleaned out. Or so I thought.

Justin said, "Let's go to Hamburger Mary's" a renowned (now-demolished) gay bar. So I got prettified and we walked downtown and inside the bar I enjoyed a refreshing beverage. And all of a sudden I realized that the wonder drug was taking effect again. I digress, momentarily, to note that I am extremely sensitive to all medicinal products. They do strange things to me, like break out in hellish rashes or lose interest in interesting things. That little nasty pill I took that morning had decided to activate its wondertwin powers while I was in a homosexual establishment. Did I mention that I hate using public bathrooms, hate being in the bathroom when there is someone else there? Now urinals are okay, it's the toilet part that ooks me out.

Anyway, I scurried through the crowd of tourist homos, many proudly wearing brand new Hawaiian shirts, and headed into the men's room. Why people feel the need to announce to the world that they are in Hawaii by wearing newly purchased brightly-colored floral shirts is puzzling, similar to people who go to a concert and buy a t-shirt and put it on right away. But back to the story. The bathroom was packed, a long line snaking toward the stalls and urinals. Men, some of who were very attractive, gossiping and flirting and eyeing each other. I imagine many paired off for amorous adventures. Something that I wasn’t particularly interested in at that particular moment. As I scanned the room, my intestines were making the most peculiar noises and I was aware that something was very, very wrong.

What to do? What to do! Suddenly I realized, 'There must be a woman's bathroom!' And there was, right down the hall. Empty, oh there must be some sort of minor deity, because that bathroom was completely empty and I rushed into the stall and squatted (I can never sit on a public toilet seat, who knows who last sat/shat there) and all hell broke loose. I could tippytoe around what happened but then this is a charming anecdote so I won't. If you have a sensitive stomach or are about to eat a chocolate sundae, I would suggest you immediately visit Mark's blog and look at the cute dog picture or enjoy
Jonny's discussion of mid-century kitschy Phoenix architecture. Or perhaps you want to know what happens when the chemicals found in Ex-Lax react with my body? Well, as I was mentioning all hell broke loose and poop literally flew everywhere, splashing the toilet seat and the floor and the back of the stall. Everywhere. Chocolate slime. Garnished with bits of vegetables (I really needed to chew longer!). Filth and nastiness.

OhmiLordJesusandHisMotherandLittleBrotherJamesetal. It was the most disgusting moment of my entire life, both visually and smell-ually. I turned, looked, and looked away. Did all of that just come out? How was that possible? Now what to do? I mean, the stall was coated. It was obscene.

I chose the easy route and fled that room, now several pounds lighter (Mary-Kate, forget the finger-down-the-throat business, I recommend Ex-Lax, you won't ruin your manicure and you can afford it, young billionaress!). I found Justin and said in a hurried whisper, "We have to go now!" and evacuated that destroyed bathroom, that awfulness.

Oh, I've always wondered what happened when the next person wandered in and came upon that one-of-a-kind Rorschach test. Sometimes I feel a tad guilty, knowing that some poor immigrant woman had to clean up that mess. But its not like I was ever going to confess to it. Until now.

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