Last night, 2 a.m., Chinatown—After generous servings of gin, bourbon and ginger ale, MGD, Soco and lime, and Peroni, I decide some lo mein is in order and walk with a friend two blocks south to a
Chinese place, order pork lo mein and return to the bar, where I quickly eat and continue drinking as if my stomach were lined with iron.
This morning, 11:35 a.m., home—Guts feelin’ rotten. Seems like a gnome or faerie of some sort broke into our apartment (which can be easily broken into) and filled my gullet with no less than three pounds of pudding while I slept. I go to the John and push out a mess that, if I had the resources or the ambition to capture and transport it to a state fair that awards prizes to gorgeous poos, would’ve won a blue ribbon.
I didn’t take a photo, but if you’re interested in what it looked like, I’ll leave you with Franz Kline’s Orange Outline.
1:10 p.m., home—Lounging around in robe, watching a Cronenberg special on my new passion, ReelzChannel, considering my options: get brunch, go to Yo La Tengo in the park, do both, do neither. As the segment on The Fly ends, my bowels decide for me. Seems like the 11:35 poo was only half of the pudding. I sit down and squeeze out a set of spongy triplets. They’re ugly compared to the 11:35, but sizable and somewhat impressive considering that I haven’t eaten anything all day. It’s a curious anatomical situation, one that could possibly be a scene in a Cronenberg movie circa 1983, that is, if an attractive artist/academic-type lady came over and raped me with a television antenna, which subsequently broadcast video of the rape around the world.
Visual? Yams.
2:00 p.m., Driggs Ave.—I walk over to Driggs’ galleries, only to see “Closed ’til September” signs. Since I’m over there, I hit up Peter’s on Bedford and order a skillet of spinach, feta, three eggs over easy and sausages; a good-enough salad comes with. And even though less than an hour earlier I’d shat more than a normal person would in four days, I begin to feel gassy and ready to poo upon finishing the food. I decide to spare Peter’s’ customers the horror, but the trek back to my home court throne would be unbearable, so I walk down into the subway station. Wait five or so minutes for a train. Fart like a banshee in the subway car. Execute a perfect clenched-sphincter waddle back to the apartment and, somehow, going against all I know about anatomy, I push out another giant poo. The entire brunch skillet could not be bothered with supplying my body with nutrients. It needed to bail immediately. Like when a reasonable person enters Arrow Bar on Avenue A. But this mess was no beauty queen. Nor was it a reasonably-sized set o’ nuggets like the 1:10. Imagine this: a poor Argentinean boy works 12 hours a day scraping clay from the side of a cliff and then sells the clay to potters and artisans in his village. One day, while carting his wares through the streets, his wheelbarrow hits a pothole and $5 worth of clay falls off the ‘barrow and lands in a puddle. That’s what the 2:50 looked like in the toilet bowl.
The visual is rather weak, but I’m sick of Googling “clay,” “clay water,” “clay poop,” and “clay puddle,” so that’s what I’m going with.
I’m not a religious man, but after today’s three miraculous poos, I feel as if God may be trying to tell me something: “Stop eating lo mein after midnight, especially if it’s a lumberjack’s portion for only $3.75.”
Want more words? This isn’t the first time late night lo mein got me in trouble.
