Of disgustink bodily funktions

A teaser trailer before we get to the main blog:

My toilet appears to be taking a break from working. A couple of hours ago I went into the bathroom to pee and noticed that the turdfest I left there earlier was still there. Hmm, that’s odd, I thought. I must’ve forgotten to flush. So I did my thing and flushed. As I got up just now and decided I wasn’t going to be able to go to sleep until I blogged, I revisited the bathroom before setting to labor. Imagine my surprise when I turned on the light and there laid the turd from this afternoon. Still reveling in its porcelain digs. This time it was more shocking, what with the deja vu to earlier. It’s like my can is remaking Groundhog Day, with my turds playing Bill Murray’s role. I just flushed and ran out. Pray for me that it won’t still be there in the morning, horribly swollen and mocking my attempts to banish it, eventually growing legs and hopping out of the toilet like some horrible science experiment gone completely bad.

Thank you. And now for the Feature Presentation.

I hate hiccuping. Yes, I know everyone hates hiccuping, but I hate hiccupping to an exquisite, practiced degree. As the late Pontiff hated communism, I hate hiccups.

God knows this.

Sadly, He has taken this as license to endow me with a hiccup capacity usually reserved for people drunk on cheap whiskey. I’ve had the hiccups for 17 hours straight before. I’ve gone to bed with the hiccups and woken up with a start the next morning as my diaphragm decided to twitch like a tweaker short on xanax. Most people do a little ::hurk:: with their hiccups. A mere annoyance. Me, I frighten children with the noises I make. I interrupt lecturing professors with a sudden sharp intake of breath and resultant collapse of the throat, resulting in a sound like an angry, dying accordion.

In the middle of one of my marathon hiccuping sessions, Jen noted that a parish priest back in New York had died of the hiccups. Thanks love, that’s precisely the love and support I need as I try to think about anything other than putting a dagger in my sternum to STOP THE AGONY.

As you’ve probably guessed, hiccups aren’t my thing. They usually piss me off so badly that I resort to thwacking myself on the chest rather hard after each hiccup. ::hic:: ::thwack::. So not only do I have the worst hiccups in the world, I also look like I’ve forgotten my lithium. I suppose it’s my rational mind’s attempt to shock the diaphragm muscle back into a regular rhythm combined with my irrational mind’s desire to drag the diaphragm out, call it racial epithets, gang-rape it in a dark alley, and leave it for dead.

Oddly, I don’t get the hiccups from drinking. You’d think my Irish blood would emerge and I’d start singing songs about murdering Englishmen while hiccuping whenever ethanol and I are in the same ZIP code. But the only consistent trigger to my hiccups is certain very spicy chile peppers. The kind that are found in good salsa.

So late in senior year, Irma’s mom came to visit her and she brought with her The Best Burritos in the World. They’re from a little hole in the wall up in the Bay Area, and they’re to die for. Unfortunately, since they contain a trigger pepper, for me they’re also to die of. It’s a fine line.

So the girls and I get hammered one eve, and we decide that The Best Burritos in the World would make an excellent midnight snack. So we heat ’em up. And go to town. And I immediately start hiccuping. Thus endeth any part I may have had in the conversation:

Irma: God I love White Russians. Kahlúa rocks my world.

Chris: ::hic:: ::thwack::

Jen: I think I’m going to start my period soon. Watch out.

Chris: ::hic:: ::thwack::

Irma: Foucault’s model of the panopticon really applies to the oppression of women in today’s America, don’t you think? [this may be embellished a bit…my memory’s a bit fuzzy]

Chris: ::hic:: ::thwack::

And because I’m drunk, I hit harder than usual and feel less pain than usual. I eventually tire of this and go home and go to bed. The next morning we all go to the gym. I change and roll over to Jen’s room looking forlorn and confused.

Jen: what?

Chris: I don’t remember a whole lot about last night. Do you know why I have a massive purple bruise on my chest?

I am God’s personal hacky-sack.


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