Friday, December 09, 2005


You know, an automatic seat warmer in a car is a wonderful thing--except if you have bubbling super-explosive diarrhea.

I mean, I love my trusty Jetta. It has all sorts of handy dandy little features like the seat warmers; power windows and doors; the automatic gay announcer. It’s peppy, it’s cute and so convenient for carting a bunch of fags around town.

Today is Casual Friday and it is always a dilemma for me. This is the one day I get to express my individuality. So, this morning I was running late because it took half an hour for me to decide whether a thong was too dressy for Casual Friday.

As I was putting the final touches to my outfit, I felt a little twinge in my stomach that by experience I know is a precursor to SCB--Super Colon Blow, the deadliest of diarrhea. It must be the tacos I had from that neighborhood Mexican restaurant last night.

But I was running late and it was just a twinge. Maybe it'll go away. I'm always optimistic in the morning. It is only after I wake up that my whole world turns to crap. I just hoped that today it wouldn't be literal. I forgot to bring any reading material.

Freezing today, I turn on the seat warmers. Big mistake. Eight minutes after I drive away, the warmth emanating from the seat traveled from my ass to my stomach, like the flame under a wok, a wok which I’d like to use to brain the guy at the gym who keeps cruising my boyfriend. I clench my butt together in an effort to staunch the impending eruption and exercise my glutes at the same time. If I could hold on for another twelve minutes, I would be at work and relief. A little later, you could probably bounce a quarter on my ass from the exercise.

It was the longest twelve minutes in my life, bar none. It reminded me of the shortest twelve minutes of my life when I met the love of my life whom I had met online and was feverishly exchanging gooey instant messages. It ended when he sent me his picture.

I could also tell you about the longest eleven minutes of my life, except it doesn’t really count because it was more like a series of 20-second intervals of holding my breath while giving a blowjob to a one-night stand who had serious body odor. I’m sure the guy had put on deodorant, but after hours of dancing and sweating, it wore off. It was BAD, but I bravely blew on--I had to be true to myself and my reputation as a slut.

You know how when you’re trying to hold off the inevitable, how excruciating it is, just like that time when I had to tell a guy I wasn't going to bed with him after he bought a $200 lobster dinner? I didn't know how to tell him I already had crabs...

When I finally got to work and dumped my load, it was like salvation or an enema, I don’t know which. Either way, I was 0.73 lbs lighter.

All I can say is thank God for butt-wipes, you know, those "personal moist wipes." I’m glad we figured out that not only babies needed those wipes. They came in handy today. I felt fresh as Daisy Fuentes afterwards.

I think that the Mexican restaurant I went to should really provide single-use butt wipes along with their take-out food, like wet-naps, you know, as a service to their customers.

I know I would’ve appreciated it.

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