Rejection Letter! Huzzah! -and- the poop that wouldn't come.

I got my second rejection letter from the Funny Times. That makes me very, very happy. It makes me happy for two reasons:

1. Their standard turnaround time is months. I got the rejection letter in only 14 days - accounting for travel time they reviewed and responded to my submission within days.
2. This was a standard rejection letter, but with a personal scribble attached. It said, "Mike, enough about the body functions already!"

This leads me to believe I actually have a modicum of talent with a poor taste in subject matter. Most of what I have submitted is reworked articles from this blog. So, in order to get my creative juices flowing in a manner that does not involve poo, puke, enema's, urine, farting, etc, from this point forward my blog entries will not involve any of those things, for the next little while anyways.

Except for today's entry. Enjoy.

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This weekend was a bachelor party. It wasn't any old bachelor party, I was the best man for this wedding. So basically, it was my bachelor party. And my bachelor party lasted for twenty hours.

I'm still freaking tired. I'm thirty, not eighteen. That kind of shit takes it's toll on this old man.

Something awful happened the morning of. Something terrible, so terrible it scared me and made me realize my own mortality.

I couldn't poop.

This scared me. For the thirty years I've been on this planet, I've had many, many problems, but pooping was never one of them. I could wang one out with minimal fanfare and maximum force. I could poop on command even, which made me real popular with my punk ass friends as a teenager. No more stale, hard dog poop for those fiery paper bags - nope, we had some fresh, goopy, stinky stuff to make even the bravest of feet cringe.

I've trained myself to go first thing in the morning. It's best that way - get it done, out of the way, and right before my shower to do an easy and proper clean up. The call of nature comes loudly usually halfway through my Cheerios.

Yes, I put the cereal down. I don't eat and poo. That's just wrong, even for me.

So when I woke up at my buddies place the morning of the bachelors party, I had to go.

But it just wouldn't come.

This confused me, because my body was telling me I needed to poop, but it wouldn't let any come out.

On our way to the golf course, we stopped in for breakfast at a local restaurant. Halfway through my pancakes, the urge came again, strong and loud like it usually does. I dashed to the restroom, only to return disappointed.

We golfed a good game, and despite having golfed only once in my life a decade before, I got par on the 8th hole. If that sounds good to you, realize that this 9 hole course was 29 par and I scored 66. Pathetic, but hey, it was fun. Except for I had to poo.

The next stop was down town Toronto for lunch and sake and beer and sake and beer and sushi and sake and beer and beer and beer and sake at a sushi place. Our favorite sushi place. Really nice decorum, classy, and most importantly staffed with cute Japanese waitresses.

Our waitress looked to be about 25 years old, 5 foot 1 and weighing about 36 pounds. What we'd call a "spinner". You boys will understand. Our first two shots of sake and a bowl of miso soup later, and the 'ol bowels began to complain. I excused myself to an astonished "jesus! not again!", and returned a very sad man to the table.

At this point I was contemplating the hospital. This never, ever happened before in the span of 30 years, and I was very careful. That hole has been exit only for as long as I can remember. I've never even had my prostate checked!

Another bowl of miso soup and another sake, and our waitress brought our first course of sushi. Three pieces of raw fish later, and the stomach was rumbling. A fourth, and the rumbling increased in intensity, registering on the Richter scale. Made for T.V. producers hovered around taking notes for a shitty sci fi disaster flick, while the rumbling sent our 36 lb waitress flying across the room. She looked at me wide eyed, and I swear she screamed Godzilla!
I ran to the washroom to the jeers of my already drunken buddies, but in apparent desperate need.

Sitting on the can, to the horrible pains of I gotta poo now, and wouldn't you know it, nothing happened. But I wasn't about to give up yet. I grunted, strained, pushed, pooped a blood vessel or two, and then it happened:

My intestines had decided to compact my poo until it became plutonium. And I destroyed my favorite Japanese restaurant.

I stepped out from the rubble, to find my 36 lb Japaneses waitress under a roof truss. I lifted the roof truss off of her, and she screamed "What do you want Godzilla! What do you want!"

"Some sushi and maybe more sake" I replied, sending her off to what was left of the kitchen.

The rest of lunch was fantastic, and I did leave our poor waitress a very generous 20% tip for the trouble. I hoped that covered the damages.

I hope I never go through that again, but if I do, I'm selling my ass to the American army for millions.

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