Sunday, November 13, 2011

Profound Discharge #14 (Dan)

I have briefly mentioned the worst shitstorm of my entire life in other posts on here, but never elaborated further than "it reminded me of the worst shit of my life, short of the whole 'bleeding' thing." Well, you want the whole schpiel? Here it is:

The worst shit I've ever had in my entire life.

January 7th, 2009
I was in the middle of my junior year at Pratt and living in an apartment in Brooklyn with my roommates. I had came back from Christmas break a week or two before the start of the new semester so that way I could spend some time alone in the apartment and go hang out with this girl I'd been seeing.

My tiny Italian mother loaded me up with bags and bags of food for the train ride back. In those bags were packages upon packages of Tupperware filled to the brim with lasagnas, breaded chicken and fish cuts, and a few jars of homemade sauces. I had a fuzzy beard and longer hair at the time, so to the rest of the Amtrak passengers I probably looked like a homeless person that robbed a grocery store.

One of the things my mom packed in with all of her home-cooked foods was this:

America has legalized seafood-flavored poison.

My mother knows that I'm a good cook and capable of breading meats and cooking them, but I have no real patience for marinades that take more than a few hours. So she bought me a package of those frozen spiced shrimp things that you can just microwave right in the bag. After I got back to Brooklyn, I put most of the food in the freezer for later and went about my business.

January 9th, 2009
About two days later, I had burned through all of my mom's food either on my own or when friends were over, so I had no choice- I had to microwave the microwaveable bag o' shrimp.

I cooked the remainder of a box of pasta with some butter while the shrimp microwaved for about five minutes. I mixed the pasta and shrimp with a pinch of sea salt and ate it. It was perfectly average for college-level cuisine. After dinner, I went out with some friends to the bars and went to bed at around 1AM.

This happiness would shortly be wrenched from me, anus first.

January 10th, 2009
Around 8AM, I awoke drenched in sweat and breathing extremely heavily. The pain in my stomach and anus were almost blinding. I was seeing spots and feverishly shaking like a palsy patient. The muscles in my chest and neck were flexed involuntarily, pulled taut in anguish. It was like indigestion and a panic attack teamed up for the ultimate one-two-fuck-you to my entire body.

I got up to go to the bathroom before anything bad happened and I promptly fell face-first into my hardwood floor. I had passed out for a brief second before the newfound pain in my face jarred me wide awake. I grabbed the water bottle I kept next to my bed and then proceeded to commando crawl the twenty feet or so to the bathroom.

The bathroom in our apartment had these shiny black and white marble tiles, which did not help my nightmarish floor-based reality one bit. Coupled with seeing multicolored spots in front of my face, the tiles blurred together to where my vision was basically one big Photoshop filter.

Keep in mind, I've been awake for less than thirty seconds.

Yup.

I heaved myself up off the floor and onto the toilet, using the sink and trash can for leverage, accidentally draining all reserves of energy and strength from my body. By this point, the pain in my anus had overtaken the pain in my head and stomach to create a screaming, vile demonic white noise in the back of my brain. I yanked my sweat-stained boxers and gym shorts down to my ankles, wheeling the trash can in front of me to prepare for the worst.

It turns out that the trash can was not there for its intended purpose- I wound up using it as a bracing mechanism for the unholy propulsion my body conjured forth. It genuinely felt like the worst kind of firehose was blasting out of my anus. Short violent bursts and prolonged, steady streams alternated with startling frequency like a speed metal record skipping on a turntable...except that it was my butt. I could feel my stomach convulse with each spasm and my hands became so sweaty that I almost lost my grip on the trash can. At one point, I probably had a slick of drool drip out of my mouth from sheer exertion.

One thing I am severely thankful for that I remembered to do during this horrible trial was one of the Golden Rules Of Shitting: the courtesy flush.

I love using this picture. It fits so many of these posts.

I think I flushed that poor toilet eight or nine times when all was said and done. After that final flush, I took off my t-shirt to use it to wipe sweat off my face, upper body, and legs. I then drank my entire bottle of water in three huge, dying-of-thirst gulps. I leaned back on the tank and breathed heavily for about a minute or two, and then I proceeded to wipe.

The first wipe was for the main clean-up. The second wipe genuinely scared me: there was a small amount of blood in it about an inch long and a centimeter wide. A third wipe yielded almost the same amount, but much more faded. I stood up and shuffled to my computer- naked- and researched every result I could possibly find with the search term "blood in post-bathroom wiping." Feel free to make fun of me as you will.

Thankfully, the majority of these search terms mostly related to medical situations that were involving food poisoning or diarrhea. A result I found on WebMD helped me out the most: the poster wrote about a similar experience he had with a microwaveable dinner and he actually went to a doctor (I didn't have that luxury). The doctor said that there was a minor tear in his anus and that so long as he ate extra-healthily for a week and cleaned that area when he was in the shower, it would heal like a normal wound.

So I then proceeded to take a shower, checked for further damage and couldn't find any. It just hurt a lot when I washed. I put on a new set of sleeping clothes, ate bread and water, and went back to bed. I woke up the next morning and felt 100% again. It was the strangest thing.

The long story short is this: FUCK YOU, GORTON'S SEAFOOD. FUCK YOU.

- DH

Saturday, November 5, 2011

Profound Discharge #13 (Dan)

I did it.

I can't believe I did it.
I swore to fucking Christ I wouldn't do it, but I did.

I ate at a Chipotle Mexican Grill restaurant.

This place is more horrifying than anything Texas could ever throw at you.

I genuinely didn't want to go...at first.

I was coerced by boobs. More specifically, by that of a girl I used to date that wanted us to meet up for a friendly dinner (no, not that one). She also promised to pay for the meal in addition to my tab at the bar we would wind up going to afterwards. I mean, if you promise to pay for my food, that's one thing- that makes me owe you a favor. Paying for all of my excessive drinking? That's a surefire sign of true love.

The two things in the world more powerful than nuclear bombs and shame.

The first thing I did in preparation (I swear on my family name I did this) was drink a bottle of water and eat a few raw pieces of bread. Just to get my system warmed up for the mayhem that it was about to go through. I was praying to all major and minor deities that Chipotle wouldn't take me down the same road that Taco Bell routinely does.

Chipotle's menu is pretty standard for a franchise Mexican eatery: a make-your-own burrito/taco, various salads, burrito bowl, nachos, etc. While I was in line, I was looking around and seeing what the hell all of these things looked like. And I gotta say, they all look exactly like they do on the menu. Especially the burrito bowl- it's actually laid out like a nifty little bento box via TexMex cuisine instead of Japanese.

And despite the freakishly perfect looks of the food, it smelled astounding. So I ordered a pretty standard, fully-loaded DH-style burrito:
  • dirty rice
  • cilantro
  • the greenest mainstream guacamole I've ever seen
  • grilled peppers
  • ground beef spiced with juniper and other fancy shit (supposedly)
  • black beans
  • cheeeeEEEEEeeeese
...and that's when shit got R.E.A.L. as they say in the Wu Tang: It was surprisingly good. I gotta admit, I liked it.

The guacamole blended with the black pepper in the rice for the right mix of smooth avocado with a subtle bite. The cilantro was rather pronounced, but it was offset from the great crunch of the grilled peppers. The beans and the beef mixed together into a spiced, delicious brown sludge. A solid 9 out of 10.

Those smug bastards have a customer for life now.

But even after that blissful 25 minutes that it took to hork down that football-esque burrito, I had almost forgotten the purpose of this little excursion. Little did I know that it would come roaring back a few hours later with the fury of a thousand wolves.

After the delightful Chipotle excursion, the two of us went to a bar a few minutes up the road.

I got through two gin-and-tonics (with Hendrick's and lime, natch) quickly and got drunk.
The girl I was with matched my drink intake with equal fervor, and we were having fun. Almost a little too much fun.

Too much fun.
Definitely too much fun.
Shortly before last call, I drove her home and said that we'd do this again (probably not).

Wanna know why I proceeded to make the 15 minute drive home from her place to mine in almost 8 minutes flat?

A vague approximation of those 8 minutes.

I then proceeded to unleash the second worst shit parade of my entire life. I almost burst a blood vessel in my head. There was no bleeding involved (this time) but it was so prolonged, fiery, anguished, enduring, disgusting, and horrendous that I was sweating from my head to my toes.

I'm dead serious- my ankles were sweating.
I think I created the book of Revelations in my toilet that night.

In short, Chipotle gave me the best involuntary ab workout I've ever had.

-DH

Monday, May 2, 2011

Profound Discharge #12½ (Dan)

Hey shitbirds- it's been a while.

The reason that this is only Discharge #12½ is because I have two part-time jobs (landscape worker and liquor store clerk, in case you cared) that demand I work odd hours that leave me away from my computer. I promise you, a 13th official Discharge will be coming soon at some point. However,
today I have something of monumental importance to share with you that just couldn't fucking wait. And it's related to taking a shit, so naturally I'm a happier camper than usual.

The feeling of incomplete defecation- we've all been there. Whether it feels like a big load that comes out in a small amount of rabbit pellets, or is just a long fart followed by a thin baby loaf, it's a disappointment I could never truly articulate into words...UNTIL NOW. There is a real, 100% scientific, awesome Latin name for this phenomenon. I found it on the internet, so it has to be true, right? I swear on my mother that I didn't make it up:


Oh, I'm not fucking done.

Not only is rectal tenesmus the official term for that awful feeling that your shit wasn't as good as it could have been, it has a sibling.

You know that feeling you get after you've drank, like, 6 or 7 beers in a row and you've gotta pee pretty bad, but you're standing there pissing into the bushes and 'cause you're so loaded you think that it just wasn't as hearty of a piss as it could have been?

That feeling is called VESICAL TENESMUS.

Know it, loathe it- now you can put a name to it.
You're welcome.

-DH

Monday, February 21, 2011

Profound Discharge #12 (Chris)

It’s a well-documented fact that, like the snowflake myth, no two shits from any one person are the same. Well, it’s sort of a fact. It’s completely true if you totally disregard any dumps you take after Taco Bell, because they’re all the same consistency (hydrochloric acid) and they all make you feel like you’re going to die a slow, painful, poo-filled death. Much like those gangsters from Dogma.

Except you don’t have the benefit of adding Jay and Silent Bob to your gang beforehand.

Speaking of movies, they’re actually a pretty solid way to classify just how great a dump you just took. The more epic the movie, the greater the dump, down both ends of the spectrum. For example, that dump you take after Thanksgiving dinner? That’s pretty much Inception. You’re in for a wild ride that takes more twists than you might expect, but it’s still a fairly easy process to follow. By the time you’ve finished, you feel great, but you’re still not entirely sure that the whole experience was even real. You can look down into the toilet for proof, but the mass left there is too big to have come from one place… right?

“Oh god the top won’t stop spinning! Also, I ate all your leftover turkey.”

Then there are those dumps that aren’t quite as amazing as the post-Thanksgiving dinner one, but will probably make you feel pretty good while you’re pushing them out. And, they’ll often leave a rather impressive display in the porcelain assuming you don’t have to spring for two or three flushes. You’ll probably finding yourself celebrating these occasions after a nice Sunday night steak or something similar to that, where you eat a decent amount of good food, but not an overwhelming amount of great food. And yes, I am going to continue to plug just how awesome Thanksgiving dinner is. Only nine more months! In that regard, these dumps are a lot like the recent Tron remake. While you’re there, you feel totally awesome, and as soon as you’re done, you can’t help but be impressed by what you are witnessing. However, within half an hour, you start to feel a little bit empty, almost like you’re hungry again, or your particular dump had no plot. Extremely Tron-like.

Not Tron, but better than having to hang out with Steve Buscemi while you poop. And he’d want to.

Next up is the marathon shit. This dump just takes forever. It’s the kind of poop you take where you get up to wipe and realize that both your legs have fallen asleep as you instead tumble down to the linoleum floor, spreading the fecal decay that was left in your crack all over the place and interrupting any good mood you might be in for the next week. No, that hasn’t happened to me, I’m speculating. This dump is just like the movie Titanic. By the time you reach the fourth disc of the uncut version, you simply want the whole thing to end. You don’t care how or who has to die or what a technological masterpiece the boat/your indoor plumbing is, you just want it to be over. And, a lot like the scenario above where your legs are asleep, Titanic will ruin any good mood you might be for the next week.

This picture has no relevance to the article, it’s just hilarious, and better than a picture from Titanic.

The next poop doesn’t need a whole lot of explanation. It’s just your regular old solid good poop. It doesn’t take forever, but it takes long enough where you have a minute to reflect back on it and think about how awesome it is. Much like Jurassic Park. It’s just a good movie. Since I’m starting to get lazy, I’m just gonna leave it at that and move on to the next category.

Pictured: Not what I meant when I compared the movie to a dump.

Now we begin to reach a bit of a grey area. You’re on the can, doing your business like only you can, and just when you feel ready to push out that big log and clear the roads for business, you let rip a monstrous fart. It smells a little like bad eggs, and you allow yourself a chuckle. Soon afterwards, however, you knock out a couple of small ploppers, but not a whole lot more. At this point, you have no idea whether or not to take this dump seriously or not… just like the movie Dogma. Yes, I am referencing it for a second time in a single article, but at least I haven’t used the same picture three times like my seasoned pooping cohort Harlow has done. On one level, it’s a Kevin Smith movie, full of enough dick and fart jokes to make the average fifth grader’s head explode. On another level, however, it is actually a well-researched and, if you look past the aforementioned jokes, offers a rather interesting take on the nature of religion in the world today. It’s a movie that you don’t know whether or not to take seriously. Just like the dump.

Pope Carlin I… if only. Also, Pope kinda sounds like poop.

At this point, we’ve moved past the more benevolent bowel movements you can experience, and on to those that make you fear for the future of humanity. Or at least give you some sort of premonition that your future holds more brown goodness than you had anticipated. This first dump will almost remind you of Tron when it’s happening, and you will anticipate great things from it. However, afterwards, instead of feeling hungry, you will feel skeptical. Tron was visually stunning. This dump is, too, kind of, but in totally the wrong way. Like a cheesy 80s hack-n-slash. Like Nightmare on Elm Street. And you knew as soon as that movie ended that there were going to be terrible, terrible sequels. Just like you know with your dump.

Hopefully your dump doesn’t jump ship like Freddy Krueger did.

Next up is your standard beershit. Harlow’s article, which also included a picture of hot Bavarian chicks if you’re looking to fap (I know the audience of this blog), covered these dumps more in depth, so I’ll just make the movie analogy real quick. Volcano.

This movie should’ve been awesome.

Next up is the bad Nightmare on Elm Street. This is the dump you know is going to be terrible to begin with, and that you’re also going to be making multiple sacrifices that day. And that each one is going to provide hope that it’ll be the last one, only to announce roughly 25 minutes later that an “ALL NEW SEQUEL IS COMING SOON TO A BATHROOM STALL NEAR YOU!” I think at this point, you should realize what movie, or rather series of depressing motion pictures, this dump will be like. I’ll save you more brain-racking. It’s Saw. I could write an entire article about how terrible those movies are, but I’ll shave it down to a couple lines here. They’re really, really terrible. They’re up to seven movies for this so-called trilogy. At least when Hitchhiker’s Guide did it, it was still good at the end. These have never been good. God these dumps suck.

Preferable to seeing Saw: taking one of these up the ass. Maybe it’ll dislodge some more poo.

Alright, we’ve almost reached the end. These dumps are the worst. They’re terrible in the same way that the Inception dumps are good. You will find yourself drawn to recounting these dumps even as you try to banish their existence from your memory. These dumps are so terrible that they’re amazing in their own right. You need to tell people how amazingly terrible your dump was. You’ll consider taking a picture of it just for proof. You might have to flush four times. You might have trouble discerning what was urine and what was not. These dumps are amazingly awful. These dumps are Troll 2. If you’ve seen it, you know now exactly what I mean. If you haven’t seen it, I have a copy. I will watch it again.

OH MY GOOOOOOOOOOOD!!

And there you have it. You can now relate your dumps to friends and family through the use of movies, and thus reduce the grossness of your statements. Until you’re asked to explain. In that case, however, just point them here, and increase our traffic! Yeah! Finally, a small shout out to Bobbo for helping me come up with some of these movies.

Shown: the reason my continued existence is pending.

-CT