You know that one guy who just refuses to dance? Even when the Macarena comes on? He's not scared or bad at dancing. He can dance up a storm, but if he does he'll probably shit his pants.
Yes, IBS sucks. There are always three thoughts pestering your brain. It's either "Oh man, I wish I could just take a shit!", "Oh no! I can't stop shitting!", and "Where's the fucking bathroom?"
A flare up of IBS happens often at social gatherings, as the prospect of not coming across as the asshole you really are can make you nervous. And when you're nervous, your colon decides to bitch slap your brain and seemingly jump on a trampoline hidden in your stomach.
You carefully walk back inside, waiting for that one gigantic fart that will make you explode into tiny fragments. Here's how it goes down:
You go to the party after eating a peanut butter and tuna sandwich for dinner. You promised yourself you wouldn't eat anything else, but your colon is like an alien parasite controlling what you do. You stuff your face full of Doritos and take the shame off your mind by wiping your cheesy fingers on the backs of people's shirts.
So you ate a bunch of crap and feel the first wave of attack squeeze through your guts. You brace the wall and clench your jaw as multiple farts explode from your butt crack. Some poor guy beside you gets blamed for the smell and a fight erupts. You can't help but start punching the guy too because the smell is revolting. It smells like it came from a zombie's ass.
You realize you're still farting as you punch the poor guy, and soon people will wise up and figure out who the smelly bastard really is. You head outside and find a nice tree to lean against before conducting the final movement of your stinky symphony. People stare as it looks like you're going to puke at any moment. You might puke, not from alcohol, but from the toxic cloud created by your never-ending flatulence.
Finally, after spending most of the night farting, angelic spirits put a cork in your ass. You carefully walk back inside, waiting for that one gigantic fart that will make you explode into tiny fragments. You head to the dance floor, and everyone leaves except one girl. It's the exchange student from Bulgaria, and her mustache is sprinkled with the cheesy remnants of the Doritos you were eating a few moments ago. Well, she has good taste and won't be around for long, so you do some gypsy dances with her.
If you could paint a self-portrait right now, this is what it would look like.Uh-oh, dancing was a bad idea. You excuse yourself and ask where the bathroom is. You expect it to be in a different room, but no, it's attached to the living room where the party is being held. Everyone will hear and smell the volcano about to erupt from your ass. There's no going back, so you dash onto the toilet and pull down your pants. You close your eyes, hoping it's all a dream, but then it happens. A monstrous spew of tuna, peanut butter, and Doritos rockets out of your ass sounding like a drunken trombone player.
Someone outside seems frightened by the noise. You quickly fumble out your cell phone and start playing ringtones, hoping the friendly chimes will mask your hymns of Satan. Somebody bangs on the door, wondering what the hell is going on. You try to say something, but your eyes are watering and your mouth is drooling as you unleash the excremental demons.
It's finally over, and you wipe your fire-breathing ass with several rolls of toilet paper. You walk out of the door, weak and gasping for air. Everyone stares, unsure of how to react. Then they smell it, and it's all over.
Some fall to the ground gagging, while others run out the door. The few brave enough to stay start swearing at you and making death threats. Even the Bulgarian girl, whose mustache has now curled up, has never smelt anything so awful.
So you run away in shame. You enter the forest naked, douse yourself in mud, and cry over the Bulgarian girl you could have married.