How I Quit Drinking Beer
Beer and my bowels have never gotten along. Maybe it's because of the horrendous cuisine I shove down my guts when drinking the cold honey nectar, or maybe my sensitive intestinal canal has a problem with the amber liquid's ingredients. Whatever it may be, ale, lager, pilsner, and stout have always given me fierce episodes of the barking blowouts. (The Barking Blowouts: Krazykritik Patent #426, �1990) Bouts of diarrhea and the trots like you can't imagine have forced their way through my sloppy colon and splashed with fecal ferocity into many unlucky toilets following of a night of beer intake -- regardless of the brand or style. Molson Export Ale, for instance, turns my poor arsehole into a rectal tuba that blows background blasts to make John Phillip Sousa proud. Coors Light, as another example, leaves me with full body shudders from the vicious anal cleanout emanating from my blownout bunger.
So it was to my complete surprise when, after trying a different kind of suds one night, I found the next morning that it had the exact opposite effect on my shit system. Tired of the same wobbly pops that boring evening, I took off to the beer store and found Carling Black Label on sale. Being the financially conscientious person I am (read: cheap prick), I went for the deal. I took the brew home and, finding it to my taste, proceeded to gulp down twenty of the twenty-four bottles alongside a medium pizza with hot peppers and all the meats and a huge Philly steak sub with crushed chilies and hot sauce.
I awoke the next morning nauseated, hungover, and with a feeling in my stomach that I'd never experienced after a night of beer. I quickly got up and ran for the john, expecting a massive fecal runoff as usually follows a night of assaulting my bowels and guts. But after a few false starts of methane and some painful rumblings, I was shocked to find that I was constipated!
Constipated on beer? Right! I kept waiting for the blowout; in fact, it was getting painful. I found myself praying for the rectal release that would ease the ever-increasing pain building in my guts. No go. I even began kneading my belly in an attempt to make the shit move. I bounced my ass up and down on the seat, trying to work the shit out any way I could, but there was no doubt -- it was a packed house.
Finally, I told myself that I was gonna force this pain-giving poop out of me using the good old fashioned technique of that had long been taught in my family as a way to achieve poopchute relief: bearing down.
Taking a quick moment to throw up, thinking it might help, I relieved myself of my stomach contents and then set to squeeze one out. I began to bear down on the packed shit. After about four or five minutes, I cracked a smile as I felt the turd begin to move. I pushed harder... and harder... and harder... and then the bomb finally seemed as if it was ready to drop.
So with all my might, I began to grunt. The turd began to head. I pushed more, my anus began to stretch, and then my grunting became moaning as the shit stretched more, and my moaning became crying as I thought I would die, and finally my crying became screaming as every muscle in my body, my agonized face contorted in pain, pushed and forced the horrifically tortuous monolith out of my viciously stretched asshole, and finally -- FINALLY -- I heard a clunk as whatever had come out of my ass hit the bowl.
"Yeeeooowwww!" I yelled as I turned to see what was not a turd, but instead a spherical object, bigger than a baseball and blackish brown in color, sitting in the water, speckled with small flecks of blood.
Then I began to cry.
Why? I mean, after all, I had finally ejected this... this... this tiny planet from my ripped rectum. Shouldn't I be HAPPY?
Well, you see -- it seemed there were six more planets (craters and all) still waiting for their turn to be born into the world. I could feel them lining up. I was looking at more agonizing pain and more lost blood before this shitful situation would end.
Sixty minutes later, I emerged from the bathroom with a half-dozen brown baseball-type turds in a garbage bag (they would never have cleared the neck of my johnny). I had inserted six Preparation H bullets up my devastated shithole and coated my brown bloodied hole with ointment. I felt as if I had just finished playing the role of 'Sally' in a men's prison.
It took a few days of R&R (Rubbing my Rectum with ointment and salve) to recover. I have never touched beer since that painful experience.
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Funny Beer Poop Story