The Jerk Sauce Caper.
Mrs. Vavoom and I have decided to go to the Caribbean during our holiday break. We'll be there during the last week of December.
Yesterday, we ate at a well known barbecue joint in the Boston area. I noticed barbecue beef, sauteed in Caribbean jerk sauce on their menu. It sounded pretty good. Besides, what better way to celebrate our upcoming trip than to eat some tasty beef loaded with Caribbean goodness?
When the food arrived I looked down at my plate. It was sopping wet with jerk sauce. Man oh man, did it look good. I immediately shoveled a pile of it into my mouth. Suddenly, I felt a rush of heat. This stuff was spicy enough to raise the dead. It was too good to pass up. I quickly devoured it. It was so good that I grabbed an extra order to go. Sure, my stomach was screaming for help. C'mon, it's Caribbean barbecue...
I was restless that night. I simply couldn't sleep. At 4 AM, I decided to get up and have more of my delightful bovine meal. I polished off another serving of the stuff.
I slept 3 hours. As I walked into work I felt a severe pain in my stomach and lower intestines. "Oh no," I thought, "I know what this means." I needed to get into work. Still, I knew a restroom break was in order. When I arrived to work, I went straight for the toilet. Never before have I wanted to yell out in agony. For whatever reason, my delicious Caribbean meal was coming back to haunt me. It was the spiciest expulsion I've ever produced. Sore and distressed, I retreated back to my desk. If I could write a BASIC computer program to describe my day, it would go something like this:
10 PRINT "Enjoy being reverse sodomized by Caribbean spices today, Vavoom."
20 GOTO 10
I swear, it wouldn't stop. I spent a total of 12 hours rushing to the restroom and then back into the lab. Finally, I decided I needed to hustle home. As I walked, I felt a painful gurgle downstairs. "It must be gas," I thought.
I thought wrong.
I quickly clenched up and caught it before any unfortunate accident occurred. I looked down at the ground. Yup, it's covered in ice. Imagine trying to hold 20 gold doubloons up your ass, while trying to navigate across a slushy, icy mess. God, my 25 year record of not crapping my pants is at risk. I felt like Payton Manning, going for 16-0. I can't make a single mistake. Not one mistake. What the hell am I gonna do? Shuffle. Yes, shuffle. That's what my faithful readers suggested. Besides, shuffling and clenching aren't mutually exclusive activities. "Oh God, please don't let my streak end," I whispered, "Why does this shit always happen to me?" I shuffled slowly across the slick ground. Could it be? Yes! A patch of clear asphalt! I'm saved!
As I hustled across the asphalt I experienced the wrath of the fabled "black ice." I quickly learned that it does, in fact, exists. While squeezing tight, I felt myself slip. I can't tell you how I did it, but I fell without letting any of my recycled Caribbean meal loose. Now there's a new problem -- how the hell am I going to stand up without crapping myself?
A young couple approached me from behind. "Oh my God, are you alright?" "He's not moving, get your cell phone." "No, no, no," I replied, "I'm fine, I... I... I just need to get up slowly. I'll be fine, really." The guy helped me up. Problem solved.
The pressure was building. I really had to go. I shuffled over to a nearby convenience store, the spicy mess was slowly threatening to destroy my undefeated sphincter record. "Can I help you?" the clerk asked. "I need to use the restroom. It's an emergency, please." "I'm sorry, we don't have a restroom," he responded. "Listen," I pleaded, "I know you must have to take a crap during the day... you must have a bathroom... please, I really have to go." Suddenly a loud gurgle came from my intestines. The clerk's eyes widened. He looked at me like I just showed him that I had webbed feet. "Sure. Whatever. It's, it's, it's in the back," he responded.
I made it to the bathroom. I frantically started unwrapping myself. "Damn layers," I grumbled. In one fail swoop, I dropped my drawers and immediately sat down on the john. I was there for twenty minutes. I was breathing heavily, the spiciness of it was overwhelming. "Hey, you okay in there," I heard. "Yeah," I responded. "You better clean up after yourself," he yelled. I did so and quickly exited the store.
When I walked outside, I desperately wanted to drop my trousers and sit in the snow. Even as I write this, it still smarts. Still, my streak has been preserved.
Remind me not to eat any Caribbean food when we go to the Caribbean.