The best way to insulate ones stomach is to eat a good and hearty meal, right? Wrong. Well wrong if that meal was satay chicken and you are trying to insulate it against glitter capsules whose sole purpose is to turn your shit into golden speckled nuggets of joy. Apparently I should have eaten a house brick that’s then been kilned by the skank breath of Satan himself instead. The following is the story of how amazing ideas, in theory, do not always translate into fantastic ideas in practice.
After a busy afternoon of being a responsible adult; rescuing kitties from the rain, cleaning, shopping, washing and cooking (I’m definitely going to make some lady a lovely housewife one day), I sit down to a hearty meal of peanut satay chicken and rice. Momentarily forgetting my complete lack of tolerance for even the slightest of spicy food, I’ve managed to convince myself that this is a perfect meal to line my stomach with before beginning my quest to become the latest member of the gay mafia. I’m pretty certain that if you can shit glitter you must immediately qualify as a level 9000 homo.
After clearing away my plate I sit down to read the prescription and as it shows in Charlie’s earlier post, it recommends taking two capsules in the morning with food until the course has been completed or until awesome. Two, huh, probably should have paid more attention to that, or had my glasses on, because I took all twelve. Let me tell you right now that swallowing twelve capsules is not a fun task and at each interval of ingestion I found myself thinking the following:
Surely she would have brought capsules that are actually safe to consume...right?
*takes 3 more*
I wonder if I should call my Mother and tell her I love her in case of some allergic reaction…
*takes 2 more*
I’m pretty sure this is going to go well.
*takes another 3*
*takes last two*
And so it was done. There was nothing left to do now but wait aaaannnddd silently start freaking out about what I’d just done.
8.30(ish)pm – 25/03/2013
A phone call to Charlie to chat about the day’s events turns into a laughfest detailing what exactly is going to happen over the next few hours. At one point I was laughing, ok cackling, so hard that I swear I felt something move. At this stage I’d experienced a lot of stomach pains and gas. I can’t tell if it was the capsules or the chicken. I’m going to put it down to the chicken. Naturally.
Woke up after having the most bizarre and bewildering dreams. Generally I’m blessed *cough yeah right, blessed* with incredibly vivid, insane and graphic dreams imaginable so whether it was just a psychological side effect of me taking these things or, until now, some unknown secret power of “non-toxic glitter” I was waking up to myself thinking “What the actual fucking fuck?”. The details of the dreams escape me now, clearly drowned out by the Enya music radiating from my gastrointestinal tract but rest assured I was riding high on the waves of nausea and crazy lady dreams.
At this stage I’d just like to say that it was nice knowing you all because my stomach has been trying out for the Cirque Du Soleil all fucking morning and I’m pretty sure it’s the new star attraction come this summer’s touring season. I have heard nothing but the sounds of the Battle for the Lower Intestine raging for the last few hours and they’re so emphatic about winning the victory march to my arse that I’ve put myself into one of the worst panic attacks I’ve suffered in a long time. The soles of my feet are sweating. I didn’t know that was possible. The end is nigh.
HOUSTON, THE GLITTER HAS LANDED. WE HAVE SPARKLE POOP!
Now I am not a leisure pooper. I have never understood the appeal of sitting in a toilet with a good book and marinating in the stench of your own excrements vapours for “fun” or for “time out”. I’m all about efficiency; get in, get it done and get the fuck out while you have a chance of retaining your olfactory senses. This time however I found myself quite happily and maniacally laughing to myself while this…movement…occurred.
Now, even though I did say I would post a picture of the aforementioned glitter turd I just can’t. I found myself having a rather heated debate, at times out loud, about this and found that even I have my limits. I was as surprised as you but at the end of the day the lighting was wrong and I couldn’t fix it. So you’ll have to make do *giggles*, YES I’M MENTALLY 12, with me telling you that it was like passing a hedgehog who’d found itself facing the wrong way of a one way street during the Drag Queen parade at Mardi Gras. The poor little guy didn’t stand a chance.
I’m also pretty sure that this won’t be the last of this debacle because the sparkle to poop ratio was well under what I put in the top of me so I think I’m going to be shitting holographic sparkle poops for days.
Help me Imo-Dium Kenobi; you’re my only hope…