i found this and it's too good not to share. anyone that has ever gone running knows this feeling.
Five miles behind me, one mile to go, and my running shoes click on the asphalt with tiny rocks stuck in the treads. I jog on the shoulder where there are no sidewalks, up on the sidewalks when the streets close in, sprinting through the August afternoon towards home. She dropped me off six miles away with a time bomb in my gut, one I accidentally armed five miles ago. Like a bad sequel to Speed, if I slow down now I know I'm going to explode.
She dished my breakfast from a plastic container marked "Organic Blueberry Yogurt," and I ate twice my fill. Then homemade granola fresh from the oven, a recipe she invented from the bins at the health food store and a crazy idea that worked a little too well. Lunch was a skillet of black beans and broccoli, baby carrots, bell peppers, some almond slivers and a pinch of spices. Pretty good, surprisingly.
But now it's churning and burning in my stomach, mixing with elements of last night's dinner: butternut squash soup, and pan seared milkweed pods. Yes: milkweed podsthose things that explode in a sticky white cloud of goo when you hit them with a weed whacker. Those toxic weeds you spray with Roundup. She boiled them twice and then pan seared them for the main course, and I ate like a starving man given chicken.
Individually, none of that is particularly harmfulexcept the milkweed pods. Together, it's like bubbling nitrogen through glycerin: explosive. I made it fifty yards before my stomach twisted in knots, but she stood in the trailing distance smiling and watching me gono time to show pain. No time for weakness. I pushed on through the cramps.
I pushed up the hill trailing a black cloud of effluent like a fighter plane struck in the starboard engine, lurching and sputtering as I struggled to gain altitude up the hill. It was two miles up, the most unnaturally grueling two miles I've recently endured, and then a mile down. It was then that the cramps turned serious.
Wet farts. They are the common enemythe dividing line between pride and shame, homecare and nursing home. They've started, and it's late on a Saturday afternoon in the lazy part of summer... nothing's open. Not the car dealerships, not the bank, just the truck stop on the horizon. Another backfire into my shorts, and I know the end is near - the Big Rig Snooze 'n Stop will be my Waterloo, if only I can make it that far. Ignominy. Discomfiture. These are my names as I sprint through the double glass doors past a middle-aged cashier and two bruisers by the beer cooler. I fling the door open with my right hand, ripping my shorts down with the left, flying middle-third-naked past two Hispanic men standing by the sink.
I bent down to meet the toilet, and nature took its course: midair release. An explosion unparalleled in the developed world-like a Kuwaiti oil rig exploding in a geyser of vile, black crude. The sound was amplified by the porcelain bowel, echoing in the steel cell. Paint chipped. Exposed metal rusted. Somehow, I managed to make a truck stop bathroom more disgusting... and somewhere a devil got its horns.
This continued on a low-octave D-flat for several notes, and then finished off with a run up the scale to an A-sharp. Silence and fallout fell in the bathroom. The reverent silence was broken at length with a heavily-accented "daaaaaaaamn!" and then "hey esse, ho' 'bout courtesy flush, eh?" I turned partway around to reach for the handle when another round fired off below me.
"Damn man, what the fuck?" said the same voice. I turned back forwards, distracted, as a third blast rocked my nether regions. More powerful than the others, the force flapped my balls around like ping pong balls in a hurricane. My lungs had all but shut down, and the edges of my sight were getting blurry when the laughter started rolling under the stall. Then the taunts, in Spanglish more Mexican than American. The scene was getting ugly, and could turn violent at any moment. I kept farting, those sick splashes, the inappropriate laughter, my feeble whimpers, sounded like a gaggle of retards drowning in Ted Kennedy's car.
With my last strength I flailed my arms violently against the walls, pounding, banging, choking on my tongue and grunting. In short order the door squeaked open, a flurry of frightened Spanish, and then I was alone in the bathroom.
It subsided after a time, the intervening events of which are not fit for this publication. When I emerged, it was as a broken, defeated man in a sweat-soaked t-shirt and foul smelling shorts, soiled running shoes, spirit broken... the cashier looked at me warily, but the bruisers who were still by the beer cooler seemed to understand without me saying a word.
I guess some things are best left unsaid.
Five miles behind me, one mile to go, and my running shoes click on the asphalt with tiny rocks stuck in the treads. I jog on the shoulder where there are no sidewalks, up on the sidewalks when the streets close in, sprinting through the August afternoon towards home. She dropped me off six miles away with a time bomb in my gut, one I accidentally armed five miles ago. Like a bad sequel to Speed, if I slow down now I know I'm going to explode.
She dished my breakfast from a plastic container marked "Organic Blueberry Yogurt," and I ate twice my fill. Then homemade granola fresh from the oven, a recipe she invented from the bins at the health food store and a crazy idea that worked a little too well. Lunch was a skillet of black beans and broccoli, baby carrots, bell peppers, some almond slivers and a pinch of spices. Pretty good, surprisingly.
But now it's churning and burning in my stomach, mixing with elements of last night's dinner: butternut squash soup, and pan seared milkweed pods. Yes: milkweed podsthose things that explode in a sticky white cloud of goo when you hit them with a weed whacker. Those toxic weeds you spray with Roundup. She boiled them twice and then pan seared them for the main course, and I ate like a starving man given chicken.
Individually, none of that is particularly harmfulexcept the milkweed pods. Together, it's like bubbling nitrogen through glycerin: explosive. I made it fifty yards before my stomach twisted in knots, but she stood in the trailing distance smiling and watching me gono time to show pain. No time for weakness. I pushed on through the cramps.
I pushed up the hill trailing a black cloud of effluent like a fighter plane struck in the starboard engine, lurching and sputtering as I struggled to gain altitude up the hill. It was two miles up, the most unnaturally grueling two miles I've recently endured, and then a mile down. It was then that the cramps turned serious.
Wet farts. They are the common enemythe dividing line between pride and shame, homecare and nursing home. They've started, and it's late on a Saturday afternoon in the lazy part of summer... nothing's open. Not the car dealerships, not the bank, just the truck stop on the horizon. Another backfire into my shorts, and I know the end is near - the Big Rig Snooze 'n Stop will be my Waterloo, if only I can make it that far. Ignominy. Discomfiture. These are my names as I sprint through the double glass doors past a middle-aged cashier and two bruisers by the beer cooler. I fling the door open with my right hand, ripping my shorts down with the left, flying middle-third-naked past two Hispanic men standing by the sink.
I bent down to meet the toilet, and nature took its course: midair release. An explosion unparalleled in the developed world-like a Kuwaiti oil rig exploding in a geyser of vile, black crude. The sound was amplified by the porcelain bowel, echoing in the steel cell. Paint chipped. Exposed metal rusted. Somehow, I managed to make a truck stop bathroom more disgusting... and somewhere a devil got its horns.
This continued on a low-octave D-flat for several notes, and then finished off with a run up the scale to an A-sharp. Silence and fallout fell in the bathroom. The reverent silence was broken at length with a heavily-accented "daaaaaaaamn!" and then "hey esse, ho' 'bout courtesy flush, eh?" I turned partway around to reach for the handle when another round fired off below me.
"Damn man, what the fuck?" said the same voice. I turned back forwards, distracted, as a third blast rocked my nether regions. More powerful than the others, the force flapped my balls around like ping pong balls in a hurricane. My lungs had all but shut down, and the edges of my sight were getting blurry when the laughter started rolling under the stall. Then the taunts, in Spanglish more Mexican than American. The scene was getting ugly, and could turn violent at any moment. I kept farting, those sick splashes, the inappropriate laughter, my feeble whimpers, sounded like a gaggle of retards drowning in Ted Kennedy's car.
With my last strength I flailed my arms violently against the walls, pounding, banging, choking on my tongue and grunting. In short order the door squeaked open, a flurry of frightened Spanish, and then I was alone in the bathroom.
It subsided after a time, the intervening events of which are not fit for this publication. When I emerged, it was as a broken, defeated man in a sweat-soaked t-shirt and foul smelling shorts, soiled running shoes, spirit broken... the cashier looked at me warily, but the bruisers who were still by the beer cooler seemed to understand without me saying a word.
I guess some things are best left unsaid.
sugar_spice:
baby carrots...they'll do it to ya everytime.
ginary:
Thank you for the comment on my set! 