The Sadness of Chocolate Cake

There is nothing quite as wondrous as a day off. Except perhaps for the sort of day off when you vow to do nothing more than lay about in a form of catatonic lavishness. Thursday was just such a day. After sleeping in much later than parental duties would normally allow and then soaking in a steaming shower until all of the hot- water reserves were depleted, I retired with a good book to the easy chair and settled in for a day of blatant time wasting.

It was to be the perfect day; I had taken every precaution to ensure it. To my side was a glutinous pile of tasty snacks, including those scrumptious little orange crackers lovingly slathered with peanut butter. There were no less than three power aid drinks within easy reach and a piping hot and soothing cup of green tea balanced on my thigh. The crown jewel however was the grossly over-sized slice of chocolate cake covered with a nice thick, creamy blanket of white frosting that I had smuggled from the kitchen. It was the last piece (three or four pieces by normal human standards) a fact that would certainly add to its overall goodness. To further guarantee my laziness would not be violated, I was dressed in a plain white tee shirt and my “nigh-night” pants. It was an ensemble that advertised like a neon sign “No honey, I will not mow the lawn today”. As a further precaution, I had dragged my wife down stairs and planted her on the couch to my side. Within seconds she was fast asleep and as everyone knows, a sleeping mother is perhaps the most effective child repellent known to man. I was set.

One simply does not keep track of time in a conventional manor on this sort of day off but I am fairly certain that it was two Cirque Du Solei’s, a Beverly Hills cop and about six book chapters from the moment I sat down to the time that “it” started. At first “it” was nothing more than a minor disturbance within my aura of bliss, a slight tremor emanating from somewhere within my stomach region. I smiled in reflection of the chocolate cake that I had so thoroughly devoured three naps ago, that was rumbling my stomach in protest of its impending digestion. Quite content with the process taking place somewhere in my belly, I returned to my book.

It was a meager ten minuets later that I discovered the resilience of chocolate cake. I was again lost in my book when once more my stomach released a rumble. This rumble however was considerably more violent than the first and very much audible to the human ear, ninety decibels at least, I would guess. Worried that my cacophonous bodily functions might wake her, I leaned over to check on the wife. She was curled up in the fetal position, hair wild and twitching in the throes of a dream. She was dressed in one of my shirts and her hideous green stretch pants (I call them the elf pants), the ones that seem to say “No Ryan, you will not be having any sex today” and had transformed her pillow into a reservoir of drool.

No sooner had I leaned back in my chair when the cake struck yet again and this time I knew it meant business. The rumble shook the entire house and was accompanied by an immense pressure in my bowel area. This third attack got my complete and undivided attention. Carefully I set my book down and began to slowly ease myself to the edge of the chair. The cake detected my movement subtle though it was, and lashed out with a fury previously unknown in my world. Windows rattled, the dogs whined and the pressure in my bowel threatened to blow me into oblivion. It was time to get to a toilet.

In an instant I was on my feet and in a deep instinctual panic that was screaming “run you fool, run!” And run I did. I took the stairs three at a time whilst simultaneously removing my pants. By the time I had reached the upstairs and hit level ground, I was moving at a pace faster than any Olympic sprinter, with my pants around my ankles. Like all the worst nightmares, time slowed, I was running through invisible Jell-O. With each awkward hop towards the bathroom, the pressure behind my anus increased as did the likely hood that I would burst in a fountain of crap before reaching the sanctity of the my porcelain throne.

With tears in my eyes, held breath and very tightly clinched butt cheeks, I vaulted through the bathroom door, fumbled to get the toilet lid lifted (I will never put the lid down again, never!) and dropped like a titan upon the shiny white toilet seat. The very instant my ass touched the cool of the seat, Mt Saint Ryan erupted in an explosion of magma like excrement and a mighty ear-splitting roar. The whole affair only lasted a few moments and was in short order replaced with a silence and calm that descended upon the tiny bathroom like a midnight snow. I sat completely dumbfounded. I was utterly perplexed as to how my nice quiet day could have been so abruptly shattered and then in an instant, replaced. The cake of course sensed this thought and immediately sent forth a series of aftershocks that left me feeling entirely hollow, spent and amazed by how much crap the human body can hold.

I sat; I imagine in much the same fashion as a grizzly bear hunter after felling his prey, afraid to move in the event that the great beast is merely feigning death in an effort to lure its stalker into claw range. And so I waited, afraid even to wipe. And then the burning set in.

It started as a bothersome itching sensation, just enough of a discomfort to drag my mind back to eighth grade biology, when we dissolved chunks of metal in hydrochloric acid, the same acid that only moments before had ruptured from my ass. In the span of about three and a half seconds, the itch turned into a fleet of Viet Cong soldiers attacking my rear orifice with white hot flame throwers. With all the grace of a very drunk, debilitated, obese and cross eyed man, I tore at roll of toilet paper mounted beside me. Mad with pain, I took the first swipe at my ass with the fluffy white Charmin.

We live in a world full of myths designed to get us, as consumers to spend our hard earned money on various products and services. One of those myths is that Charmin is soft and fluffy. In actuality, Charmin and in fact most brands of toilet paper are made from highly acidic paper that has been carefully imbued with powered glass and a sprinkling of poison ivy, a fact that became obvious the instant the bundle of soft evil touched my anus. I was sure that I was removing at least seven layers of flesh with each agonizing wipe and that by the time I was done; my ass would be no more than memory.

Finally, I stood, surveyed the bowl of liquid heat and flushed. There was little relief in watching it swirl out of my life for good, because even now the cake would not leave me be and continued to torment me with a searing burning sensation on my puckered butt-hole. I was quite certain that the best way to quell this fire was with water, so I turned with a brave face to the shower.

In no time I was dousing my burning anus with cold water and releasing deep sighs of relief. The ordeal was over, I had emerged triumphant.

Showers are quite possibly the best place’s to reflect upon the deeper meanings of events in our lives and after what I had just gone through, my mind was eager to reflect.

I wondered what it would be like for the miniature people that live in the toilet (if indeed there were miniature people living in the toilet) to awake one day and see a giant ass descending from their space like an alien mother ship. What must it be like for them to have their sun blotted out, to be plunged into darkness and fear and then to be sprayed with a mixture of shit and acid. With their dying screams would they call out God’s name? Would they think that they had displeased him and were thus being punished? As if being miniature and living in a toilet would not be punishment enough for any sin. Or would they simply see it as the end of days, a natural though terrible conclusion to life as they know it.

I am unsure why God chose to inflict me with flaming diarrhea on that particular day off but I have a few theories and I can assure you that on my next day off, I am going to mow the damn lawn, before I eat the chocolate cake.