Mood:  d'oh

So one morning at work I experienced a complete and utter catastrophic  failure and the full on melt down of my lower intestinal tract and perhaps a fair portion of my upper as well.

First, I had rumblings. Disturbing rumblings. Ominous rumblings.  Cue scary music. It sounded like a pachinko machine in my pants and not in the good way. Some shivers, a little chill and then I heard the dreaded gut gurgle. You know the one that sounds like a cement truck dumping a huge load of cement down a sewer pipe? Load after load after…well you get the picture. So after about a zillion trips zipping to the bathroom, I take my spasming lower gastrointestinal tract home so I can spare myself and my innocent coworkers.

I’m cruising home making excellent time, as rampant diarrhea is quite the motivator, when it’s time to cue the scary music again. Oh crap! Emergency crap! Now? But I’m almost home! OH! OH! NOW!

When in 5 alarm exploding ass emergency mode, beggars can’t be choosers.  My victim? McDonald’s. Closest fast food restaurant available AKA the quasi anonymous bathroom.

I came to a sliding stop in the first available parking space. Frantically, I tried to wrestle open the bottle of Big Lots brand Imodium and chewed some down in a last ditch attempt to stop the impending disaster. No such luck. As I tried to hurriedly exit the not quite capped bottle fell forward in my purse and pills spilled all over the seat. Fuck it kid, I thought, shoving the bottle down or you’ll have far bigger problems. With that, I frantically raced into Mickey Ds.

I performed a half ass check of the stalls as I flew in. NO ONE! Hurrah! I slammed into a stall, ripped off my pants and fell onto the toilet, barely making it. I strained for all I was worth with my foot planted under the other stall like a Republican Congressional member in airport men’s room. Think gawd awful straining, groaning, muscle contracting, grunting horrificness of horrificness and you have it.

At some point I hit OMFGKM stage AKA OMFG…Kill Me! That is where the puckered starfish can take no more and you feel like you’ve passed a small steer complete with horns and cloven hooves. Where you’re Lamaze breathing and gently dabbing around the burning ring of fire.

That’s when it happened. The worst thing happened. The worst thing ever. As in movie script hideously, unbelievably awful. That’s when I heard an old quavering voice ask “Dearie, are you okay?” as I watched little support hose encrusted legs hit the ground in the handicapped stall next to me. I started to laugh or cry or some bizzaro in between combination of the two. This was just the icing I needed to cap off this little cupcake of a day. I had just subjected someone’s poor innocent little Nana to my vicious colon blow.

Feeling 12 shades of wretched and now embarrassed, I thanked her for her concern and assured her that contrary to what she had unfortunately just witnessed, all of my internal organs were indeed still inside me.  After she made her better late than never escape, I surreptitiously made mine or as stealthily and ninja-like as I could  barely able to walk without wincing.

I got to my car and realized that in my intestine-fueled hysteria, I'd left the windows down. My alarm hadn’t gone off but I still checked and all appeared golden upon a quick perusal. Assorted contents and change in love box and armrest. Check. Red aluminum water bottle. Check. Wildlife Rehab badge. Check. Pumping Kidney Stones on a Saturday Night mix cd. Check. Assorted grot. Check. Big Lots brand Immodium. Hmmmm. No check. Whiskey. Tango. Foxtrot. Are you freaking kidding me? Seriously? Seriously. I literally blow in and out of Mc Dump-and-Run in less than 10 minutes and someone reached in and snaked the spilled pills off my seat!

I sat there for a second wondering what in the jiggy fug all the world was coming to before I wearily started Hi-Ho and sped home to my own comfortingly familiar porcelain and the eventual suppression of my gastrointestinal uprising.

It wasn’t until the next morning as I dragged my wrung out self to the office that it hit me. Those fucktards stole the freaking knock off Imodiums because they thought they were something else! I know, slow on the uptake.  I grabbed a pill and sure enough, the knock off stuff had just an identification stamp not a name. At first glance it looked rather like Valium. A whole bunch of lovely free Valium apparently.

Somehow I doubt my ghetto pill thief checked the Physician’s Desktop Reference before he took some. In fact, I hope he took quite a few. I can’t tell you how much I relish that thought! I hope you didn’t poop for weeks you rotten little thieving bastard!