There is a part of me that thinks I should hold back some of my shenanigans on this blog…You know, avoid writing about some of the stuff that I moved away from home so that no one would ever find out that I did it. I’ve fallen in love with anonymity over the years. I love traveling to places and being somewhere where I know that no one knows my name. Plus some of the stuff I’ve done, no one really wants to hear about while other stuff…falls into that category of “TMI”. Much like some of my shenanigans though…where normal people would stop and draw a line, I go blazing right on past that and keep on going until I’m forced to stop.
Like the first and only time that I tried Indian food. You see, I’d just turned 21 and one of my friends with benefits, RJ, turned purely friend and I had decided to take a road trip with some of his friends and their girlfriends to abuse my new Universally Legal to Drink status in Seattle. Sadly we got lost along the way and wound up finding this pub that had 5 cent wings and $5 margarita pitchers. What better way to start abusing my newly awesome driver’s license than to walk into a pub where I would surely get ID’d?
Yeah, that didn’t happen. I waltzed right into the pub, the bouncers barely spared my a glance and the waitress couldn’t have cared less about the that that I’d only been 21 for just over a month. Not only was I upset, but the 6 other people with me were upset as well. $22 in wings and 6 pitchers of margarita’s later, we were piling into our respective vehicles to head off into the night to find somewhere that would ID me.
Our next stop after that was some 24 hour gas station where I picked up a bottle of rum…and didn’t get my ID checked.
We stopped at several more 24 hour stops to pick up booze and to try and get me ID’d and came up with nothing. It was as if the Fates of Drinking were playing a horrible trick on me. No one, and I mean NO ONE asked to see my proof of age that night. We eventually finished our night in some bar that we got kicked out of. We eventually found a rest stop where we danced until the wee hours of the morning and I passed out in the back seat of a car while RJ tried to find the clasp to my bra that was on the front instead of the back.
I woke up the next morning and was quickly informed that we were in Idaho and were stopping for gas. Unfortunately this particular gas station didn’t have any booze for sale and I wound up picking two hot dogs, a bottle of Pepto, a can of Pepsi and $5 worth of those gummy cola things instead. We found out from the attendant that we weren’t far from a number of restaurants that included some Indian place that one of the girlfriends insisted on going to. Unfortunately she was a designated driver and owned the other car, so she got her way after threatening us that she’d end the trip if we didn’t go get our Indian nom nom’s on.
Now, before this point I had hated Indian food. I lived in a dorm where the Indian kids were perpetually making awful smelling Indian food in our shared kitchen…the shared kitchen that my dorm room was right next to. The simple smell of curry as we walked into the restaurant was enough to turn my tummy. I hate the smell of curry! Thankfully I was more or less full off of my hot dogs, so I didn’t need to eat much. But still, everyone insisted that I order something and try to eat a little bit more so when the owner of the place came up to us to take our order I patiently waited for everyone else to place their orders.
Then I calmly asked him if he served anything that didn’t look like the chef had vomited on a plate.
He brought me some Naan and rice.
He refused to bring me ketchup though, so he lost serious awesome points for that.
Everyone else ordered some form of curry and I knew in that moment the world was out to torture me for all my past bad deeds.
The one girlfriend who was our other designated driver was insistent that I at least try her curry because it was “delish”. In fact it actually came down to a bit of a scrap between her and I were she got this freaky Iron Man grip on my jaw and force fed me a spoonful of what I swore was rancid and explosive diarrhea on a spoon. It was just as gross as I’d imagined it. I can’t even begin to describe the flavour…but because I’m sometimes a well behaved person, I swallowed it instead of immediately spitting it out all over the table.
Sadly this quickly started a game of “Which curry will Rachael like?” and I soon was forced to sample 5 other type of curried something or ruther that left me gagging by the time RJ asked me if I wanted to try a little bit of veggie something or ruther. I figured at this point I swallowed all manner of gross delicacies that literally were shat out from the bowels of Hell, so I took a mouthful of whatever it was on his fork and swallowed it with out really tasting it.
Indian food had killed my taste buds.
Now, if you’ve read this blog a little bit, or you really know me, you know that I hate pooping in public restrooms. HATE. With a passion. It just disturbs me so much that I consider it one of the inner circles of Hell whenever I do have to poop anywhere public.
So after we left the Indian restaurant (we didn’t drink there because booze would have cost us an arm and a leg) and moved onto some pub with a live band playing, I was ready for this adventure to end. We walked past the bouncers who had eyes only for the boobs of the other two girls in the group and into the bar where we promptly walked up to the bar and ordered a round of Kamikaze’s, Jager Bombs and double Vodka/Red Bulls.
And we all got asked to show our ID’s.
I swear the Heaven’s opened and a chorus was sung. It was over.
I was hung over still from the previous night, I smelled, my hair was greasy, my liver was shot, my eyes hurt because I was too tired and my tummy had started to rumble something fierce.
Did that stop me?
Nope. I downed my shooters, grabbed my Vodka/Red Bull and hit the dance floor with the other two girls of the group. After a couple of very nicely done cover’s of some of my favorite oldies (Fishing in the Dark and Sweet Home Alabama were included), I started to feel a little gassy. Not the “Need to Poop” sort of gas but “My Tummy Hates Me” sort of gas. Thankfully the music was loud so I was able to sneak one rancid fart after another out as the girls and I cut a rug all over the dance floor. Well, and cut the cheese in my case. If it had been a cartoon you would have seen little puffs of green gas popping up behind me was we danced all over the place.
After about half an hour of feeling like this my stomach had really started to rumble and I could feel it start to gurgle around in that tell tale sign that lets me know that I’m going to need to drop a deuce or two within the hour.
When I was 10 plus hours away from home…IN IDAHO. I was so far from my comfortable poop zone that the only thing I could do was drink some more (thank Heaven’s RJ was paying for most of my booze that weekend!) and hope that I would get drunk enough to do anything…including take a poop in a public washroom.
It didn’t happen. I drank and drank and drank…and I am fair certain that there was not enough liquid courage to lube up my colon so that I could willing poop in public. I remember going pee on at least three different occasions that night, but I’m so uptight about pooping in public dung receptacles that I wouldn’t let any fecal manner escape my poop chute.
Finally the bar closes and I am drunk enough and stupid enough that I think the Heaven’s have opened up again to sing another chorus for me because I’m going home and I can hold it until I got home.
We all pile into our respective cars and I curl up in the back seat of mine, close my eyes and patiently wait for RJ to tell me that we’re home. My stomach is still rolling and gas is sneaking out my ass to stink up the car. Seriously, it smelled like babies with rotten diapers had died in the trunk of the car after we’d run over a skunk and dumped a circus port-a-potty onto the floors of the car. I can feel something sneaking into my sphincter, but I was determined to keep it there. We were on our way home and I could wait.
It honestly says a lot about RJ that he and I continued to sleep together for about a year after that and after what happened next…
Have you ever held a poop in so long that it physically hurt to tighten your butt to try and keep it in a little longer?
Well that’s what I felt like after about two hours on the road home. It was 4am, the highway was empty, the boys were rocking out to some song or another and teasing me about my rancid butt…we were doing about 140km/h along this empty stretch of road and I honestly thought that I was going to make it home. I’d actually sat up at this point and started to sing along with the guys to try and forget the white hot pain that was searing my anus.
Sadly, you can’t stop a tide and apparently you can’t stop a poop…you might be able to slow it down or influence it a little bit, but you can’t stop it.
So in the middle of our rendition of “Friends in Low Places” I started screaming for the driver to pull over. As in shaking his seat, hitting his shoulder and hollering in his ear that he had to pull over now. As the saying goes, the turtle was poking it’s head out and nothing was going to make it go back into hiding. My butt was going to explode and it was going to explode whether it was in the car, on the side of the road or where ever I happened to be when the ticking time bomb in my pants detonated.
After some violent swerving because I’d terrified our driver and coming to a hard stop on the side of the road, I tumbled out of the car before it had barely stopped and started looking around for a semi-safe place to poop. My only options were the cement meridians on the side of the road, a ditch and my pants. I was literally gripping my ass as I danced around trying to find a hidden place to poop and was coming up with a whole lot of nothing.
So as quickly as I could, I waddled over to a cement meridian, ripped my pants down and no sooner had my poop chute gotten aimed away from my pants and I had sat down on the cold cement then my bowels exploded.
I mean my ass erupted. Think volcanic explosion of fecal matter.
All I could do was sit there screaming because it hurt so bad. It felt like I was being ripped apart from the inside out and like some sort of sewer monster was trying to escape my digestive tract. Everyone was gathering around me in stunned horror as I continued to cry, scream and shit all over the back of this meridian. If you want an idea of what it sounded like, think about when a ketchup bottle is almost empty: You squeeze it and a whole lot comes out then it kind of sputters to a fart sounding stop. So you shake it and more comes out to the same liquid sound and stops coming out again.
I was seriously sitting on that meridian for a solid 15 minuets as my bowls continued to free the beast out my butt. Everyone but RJ eventually got really grossed out and ran away from the smell. But RJ stuck with me all through it and continued to encourage me to just let it all out and calmly told me that it would all be over in a little bit. Which amazed me because what was coming out of my body was the stinkiest thing to ever come out of me.
It smelled like bad curry, rotten coleslaw, bad curry, rancid meat and a bag full of dead kittens…oh and did I mention it smelled like bad curry? I don’t know what it was about Indian food, but it seriously curdled my poop like nothing else could ever do in my 21 years of living.
Oh and not to mention, the spices from the Indian food BURNED. Not only did the outer reaches of my arsehole feel rubbed raw, but they felt like I was on the wrong end of a chemical burn. It was then I learned that Johnny Cash had probably eaten Indian food too before writing “Ring of Fire”.
Eventually it ended. I was sweaty, exhausted, in a huge amount of pain and felt like my rectal hole was the size of a basketball. RJ was there waiting with a huge handful of napkins and a bottle of water. He tried to encourage me to drink the water, but I instead squirted it all over my butt in the hopes of trying to rinse some of the mess off before I got down and dirty and started to wipe with a handful of Tim Hortons napkins.
Weirdly enough, none of us ever mentioned that night ever again. RJ and I continued on like nothing happened until a year later when he started dating his now fiance and we decided to just be friends. This is actually the first time that I’ve ever told this story because…well because now I can look back on it and laugh.
Before it was a painful memory…a burning painful memory.