So my buddy grilled some spareribs on the 4th; and there was a bunch of leftovers. Since we hosted the barbecue, I naturally claimed some of said leftovers for myself. Of course, I hadn't had any that day either, so I was eager to try some later. Well, Sunday I heated a half rack up for a late breakfast/early lunch treat. An hour later, I was pissing out my butt.
Let me tell you, bad pork just doesn't fool around any more. I mean, it just wouldn't let up; literally, I was shitting so hard I was sweating. For at least three hours I couldn't be more than a room away from the toilet. Eventually, my butthole was hurting so bad that I just refused the urge to shit anymore. I just clenched it; deciding that I was going to force my body to hold it in until the lower intestine got off it's ass and started absorbing water. I guess I held it for about an hour, when the wife arrived.
She's a nurse, so she knows a crapton more about how a body works than I could ever pretend to. When she walked into the living room and found me curled into the fetal position biting a wooden spoon and covering my ass with both hands; she advised me to just take some Immodium. Unfortunately, you have to take the pills after having a 'movement'.
(Note: I hate that some professionals and literature refer to them as 'movements'. This word, for me, conjures up maybe a ballet, or a couple minutes of Vivaldi. What I was doing was shitting. Spraying raw sewage out of my butt is neither graceful, beautiful, nor moving - ergo, it is not a movement. Let's not be flowery when describing the decidedly unflowery aspects of the human experience.)
So I crawl back into the bathroom, and release what the flood gates had been holding back. It hurt so bad. By mid evening, my a-hole felt like 100 microscopic miners had been filing away at it with 100 tiny rasps. It hurt to sit, it hurt to stand; it was a bad day to be my butthole. After I finished, I went straight into the shower. I mean, six hours of the squirts makes a guy feel a little dirty.
After the shower, I took the meds; and my bowels haven't so much as quivered since. We're talking easily 24 hours without a #2 here; and I've swung to the other side of the panic pendulum. No longer do I worry that I may die on a toilet; I do, however, worry that I may die from poop backup. Of course, compounding this problem is my reluctance to do anything to encourage a deuce; for fear that it may lead to another bout of those uncontrollable, violently powerful, and immensely painful shits.
God. TMI at it's absolute height.
FYI, I ate the same thing you did (pork spare ribs cooked on the 4th for dinner Sunday) and had no problem other than some exceptionally smelly farts. Must've got lucky.
How'd they taste and smell? The ribs, I mean, not the runs.
Funny thing about food poisoning: There's an incubation period. Unless the ribs were absolutely stinking rotten, odds are it's something you ate on the second or third, not the leftover ribs on the fifth.
Of course, the last thing you ate was the ribs so they get the blame. It's like a roughing penalty in hockey: The second guy in always gets sent to the box.
Hmm, I did not know that Victor. Of course, I have no earthly idea what I ate on the second or third; dooming me to probably learn this lesson again. And just for the record, still no deuce; which means by this afternoon it'll have been 48 hours. But The Wife tells me that it's not abnormal until you reach like three days or something.
Please, tell me more.