The Irritable Bowel Syndrome Diaries Vol. 4
So I told people to send me their personal IBS stories last week and I was not disappointed. That said, someone else will be telling the world about an instance where they almost shot diarrhea in public this week instead of me. I’ll be using your guys’ stories for the next several volumes because they’re too good to just leave in my spam folder, but I’ll still be budding in for moral support in the middle of each tale. Great stuff from all the anonymi who shot off an email this week. Keep fighting the war.
Here is my (anonymous) IBS story:
You’ll have to excuse any typos as I’m writing this half asleep on the train. Enjoy.
I work in a high rise downtown and am a habitual coffee drinker with IBS. I wake up every day knowing that I am always a few dangerous seconds away from ruining a perfectly good suit. Shitting in a suit is probably one of the worst ways to shit. You have to use that disgusting little coat hanger to hang up your jacket as you’re frantically trying to undress yourself. All of this takes time when time is absolutely essential.
I’ve never entered the grace period in a suit before, but those finals seconds in the 4th quarter would give me nightmares. Even when you’re in front of the toilet you’re so still so far away. It’s gonna take you a full 60 seconds to undo those buttons, hang up your jacket, take off your belt, untuck your shirt, and just whatever else you have to do in that situation to avoid a $300 shit. Sometimes you don’t realize how bad other people have it.
I knew this particular day was going to be rough because it was a Monday and I had just spent the weekend boozing as if I was still in college. Taco Bell certainly didn’t help, but I stand by my decision.
For the record I stand by your decision even more than you do. There’s no better feeling than saying “fuck you” to the syndrome and eating something that basically gives anyone IBS, much like Taco Bell. Gotta respect Anonymous going full blown YOLO here.
Anyway, after spending an eternity in a meeting, I am doing a nice power walk to the bathroom and I can just feel my ass start to sweat. Eventually, I make it to the bathroom, fly through the door and both stalls are empty. What a relief. Things seem to be off to a good start.
But, as soon as I sit down all hell starts to break loose. It’s splash mountain in here and I could just smell all of my poor decisions in this hot box I created. After 10 minutes of non-stop piss coming out of my ass, I proceed to wipe with sandpaper for what seems like forever.
Side note: can we pass a law that abolishes 1-ply? It’s absolutely absurd that this still exists.
Couldn’t agree more. You’re getting a brown finger 9/10 times with 1-ply. And if it’s an IBS shit you’re going up against you’re gonna have to legit Homecoming TP your entire hand if you wanna stand a chance.
By this time, someone else had joined me in there but I was close to being done. This guy next to me starts dropping some impressive heat and I’m giving him my nod of approval (although he can’t see that obviously). Finally, I go to flush and that’s when things went terribly wrong.
I had never seen water rise so fast in my life. For what it’s worth, I did do a courtesy flush mid-poop, but it clearly wasn’t enough. Usually you watch as the water rises and you start your gradual panic. Not this time. My poo water shot out like a cannon and before you knew it, it was Niagara Falls in this bathroom. At this point I have a few options:
- Stay there and provide moral support to my poop victim
- Run out and don’t look back
I chose option 2.
A shit-and-run is always the right decision when you don’t recognize the shoes next to you. Maybe throw in a “heads up” or say you’re going to get the maintenance man if you’re trying to clean your conscience.
For the sake of this story, the victim will be known as Bob. I said “oh shit” (not too loud because I didn’t want Bob to know my voice). Didn’t even wash my hands and immediately went to a different floor to clean-up and distance myself from the situation. During that time I developed an alibi and came up with a detailed backstory to throw my fellow cube-mates off the scent.
I’m very lucky that someone didn’t come in to the bathroom as I was leaving because I would have been a dead man. I returned to the scene of the crime later that day and naturally “out of order” was slapped on the door. All day I kept thinking about that poor guy I hung out to dry in there.
Bob was mid-poop when the brown hurricane hit. What did he do? Did he finish? Was he forced to pull up his pants and get out of there? Did he say “fuck it” and just go home? Did he walk around in wet socks all day? To add insult to injury, he also looks like the guilty party if someone came in as he was leaving.
Then my panic starts to set in. Did he see my shoes? Did he recognize my voice? Do I need to change jobs now? To this day, it would appear as if I got off Scott-free (pun intended) but that could have been an absolute disaster. Bob, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry.
Until next time, IBS.
Bravo Anonymous, bravo. Until next time indeed. We all know there’s really no light at the end of the tunnel when it comes to Irritable Bowel Syndrome, so feel free to keep sending me your tales for the rest of your life at djconrad41@gmail.com or @DannyJConrad on twitter.com.