Christmas With The Pill Poopers
We had all sat down, like we do every year, to a nice Christmas dinner. My mother had cooked up a feast fit for five hundred. Since we're Italian, we start off with the antipasto. This year it was a huge platter of smoked mozzarella, pepperoni, some kind of sliced sausage, and some other stuff I didn't recognize. I piled a considerable amount on my plate and munched away as my parents and the rest of my family reminisced about the days of yore: The Sixties. My uncle told of the time he pulled my dad's '60-something Cadillac out of a flood; my father countered with the time he saw my uncle take a shit in a tree while they were hunting.
After the antipasto, we moved on to the fish. Traditionally, most Italian households have seven dishes of fish. But tradition has changed over the years and, since no on really likes all that much fish, my mother only cooks about three dishes. This year, Moms decided to kick it old school -- breaded smelts, calamari, and olege (sp?) bread. Olege is pretty much just like anchovies, but way more salty -- they're usually soaked in milk to greatly reduce the salt content. I grabbed a few smelts and a big hunk of olege bread and went to town. As I dipped my bread in some virgin olive oil, all seemed well in the world. The stories continued and alcohol began to flow.
I ran into the garage to get my libation of choice: Jagermeister. I grabbed a bevy of shot glasses and proceeded to pour shots for any who would take them. My eighty-four-year-old grandmother was among the brave souls. With a hearty "salute!" we all downed our shots and I poured another round. Four shots later, Moms was bringing out the ziti.
Let me get this out right now: my mother can flat out COOK. It is known far and wide that my mother is a phenomenal gourmet. All my friends know it, as does most of my family. When Gloria says, "Try this, it's good," 99.99% of the time it is beyond good. Never -- and I mean NEVER -- have I gotten even remotely sick from something my mother has cooked for me.
The ziti was laid out just as the final shot of Jager slid down into my belly. Those who had partook in the Jager were feeling no pain and we were all laughing and getting along really well. Not that this is a rarity -- my family tends to get along pretty well most of the time because any of the assholes who are in my family don't come to family gatherings.
My mother grabbed a huge serving of ziti and slapped it on to my plate. Before I even had a chance to tell her "no," she threw on an extra helping of gravy and a meatball as well. Yes, I said gravy. I know it's not brown and any of you fuckers out there who want to argue can talk to my mother about it.
She dolled out the ziti as if she was the lunch lady at Chino. We all waited patiently to dig into our plentiful bounty. (God help you if you ate before my mother had sat down and all the family was served.) My brother then said a short grace, and we all got down to business with the ziti.
I ate with the fever of a rabid hyena. Since leaving home, I really don't get to eat nice, home-cooked meals -- this was probably the first meal in months that hadn't started its life frozen in a box with a fat man in a chef's hat on it. I waited patiently for all to finish their ziti and then grabbed a second helping. Trying not to look too gluttonous, I quickly ate my second helping just in time for Moms to break out the main course: prime rib.
Just as my father set down the enormous plate of meat, I felt the first cramps in my stomach. I got out of my seat, walked over to my loving dog, scratched her head, and tried to walk out a few farts to relieve the pressure. It didn't help. This pain was a pain I've felt before. I knew what would be my undoing. The Jager would be my demise.
My father was handing out big slices of prime rib. Just as I sat down, he slapped a big piece into my plate. And just as he did so, he gave me a look of pain. "My stomach is hurting," he said. "I don't know if I can even eat this."
This was a shock. My father is a rather large man, and he's never met a meal he didn't like. Usually he can eat just about anything, and a lot of it. For HIM to say something like that meant something had really gone awry.
I only eat red meat like twice a year. I slowly cut into my slab of meat and took a small bite. It was good. Damned good. I took another few small bites and everything felt okay. The cramps had slowed a bit and I thought it had passed. After soldiering through about half of my prime rib, I considered it finished. I leaned back in my chair, tossed my napkin in the air like a white flag, and took sip of ginger ale. My mother flashed a look of disapproval at me -- I was wasting food.
I took one more small bite and that was it. I was done eating for the night.
My brother and I got up from the table and began to discuss things -- old times, his marriage, and finances.
"Yeah," I said, "I have like fifty bucks in my checking account."
"You need to get a real job," he said, "and stop getting tattooed." And just as he finished his sentence, a pocket of gas made a B-line for my O-ring. I let out a five second silent fart as I spoke with my brother.
"You need to start to divers-- Holy fuck, did you shit yourself? That's fucken terrible."
And just as I tried to laugh, the cramps hit me like a Mack truck. I plummeted off the couch and grabbed my stomach. Seeing this, the rest of the family all dropped their forks and looked down at their food.
"The food is fine!" said my mother. "He just can't handle the prime rib. He has a sensitive stomach. He always did."
Sensitive stomach, my ass! I was dying here and my mother was trying to poison me! I lay prone on the living room floor. My only company was my beloved dog -- a brave soul is she to sit at ground zero with me and my raucous farts. Then again, this is an animal that licks its own ass.
After about fifteen minutes the cramps subsided, and I made no mistake in getting to the bathroom as quickly as possible. I ran upstairs, grabbed the new issue of Cycle World, and went into the bathroom. I knew what was about to take place and I knew it wasn't going to be pretty.
Just as I sat down, war erupted in my anus. Blast after blast of diarrhea shot forth from my poor fart box. I grabbed on to the toilet paper holder and the shower to keep my leverage. The smell was absolutely horrific, to say the least. A few big, solid pieces shot out like depth charges, the initial splash of water quickly evaporating from the sheer heat my bung was creating. Thunderous farts echoed through the upstairs of my house. I clenched my teeth in pain and tried to fight through the tears.
When all was said and done, the damage was massive. (At least this time, though, I hadn't shit my pants.) I wearily rose from my Ferguson to survey the damage. The bowl was black like Satan's heart ,with specks of red floating askew -- my guess was undigested tomato. I wiped my ass about five thousand times, washed my hands, and slowly went downstairs to rejoin the rest of my family.
As I crested the bottom of the stairs, the joyous banter of my family turned to complete silence. Had they heard the battle that I raged upstairs? Had my dog passed out from the tremendous gas I had laid before? Had my grandmother said something offensive about my mom's food?
"You okay?" whispered my father. "You flushed about ten times. You look a little white�"
"Yeah, I'm okay," I said. "I think the ziti messed my stomach up."
"Messed it up?" asked my uncle. "Sounded like your father's '67 Cadillac throwing out a backfire!"
Everybody laughed and so did I. If you can't laugh about shit fodder in front of your family, what else in life do you have? No one else fell ill that night, so my guess was that the combination of that much Jager, tomatoes, and red meat were my downfall. At least, that's what my mother would like everybody to believe.
After everybody had left for the night, I sat on the couch and watched TV with my father. We laughed about old times. I realized that of all the people in my house, I missed my father the most.
I got up to leave. My mother had packed a big shopping bag of leftovers for me to take home.
"I don't want anything, Mom. Thank you, though."
She gave me a quizzical look and then a hug goodbye. Just as I was about to leave, my father chimed in.
"Why are trying to give him food? You want him to shit himself on the ride home?"
My mother, my father, and I laughed as I walked out the door and got into my truck for the short ride home. If you can't laugh about shitting your pants with the people who wiped your ass years before, what else in life do you have?
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Christmas Poop Story