fun medical fact
if one has bad-enough diarrhoea, at some point the poo is under so much gas-pressure that it stops coming out like cheap curry and starts coming out like frappuchino, all carbonated tiny bubbles. that’s right: crappuchino.
remember, i am not doing this for me; i am not doing this for you.
i am doing this for SCIENCE.
remember when you were a kid, and on long car trips your Dad would give you one of those moving-square puzzles? it’s a sort of 2-dimensional rubik’s cube. . . 14 tiles and one open space. and the goal is to use the one open space to shuffle the rest of the tiles around and get them to make a picture? and you had to move all 14 around one at a time, just to move the one tile you WANTED, just one space closer to where it’s supposed to be? and even when you get that tile in sequence (finally) you invariably end up moving it OUT of order, in the process of shuffling some NEW tile into place?
that is what is happening in my intestines right now.
by some metabolic quirk, i have arrived at a point in my life where i can eat one raisin and instead of breaking that raisin down into carbohydrates, proteins, and other ‘building blocks of life,’ my stomach turns it into basically 5 cubic meters of highly compressed methane.
i got so much gas, i am thinking that, armed with only a speculum, a windmill, and a generator, i could solve america’s dependence on foreign oil. plus, you know, more raisins.
but, like all brilliant schemes, there is a hitch. my guts are all kinked up like a old hose, so that gas has nowhere to go. the process of getting the gas pockets to one end or the other requires a moving-square-puzzle amount of time and effort, plus a bewildering variety of analog bleeps and blorps for which analogy fails me. maybe an extended dennis-hopper-as-Frank-from-Blue-Velvet-sodomizng-R2D2-underwater? if i might be permitted to return from the heady realm of abstraction, it hurts like fuck.
but, when the gas pocket DOES finally reach its destination the results are a spectacular natural phenomena on the order of the auroura borealis or . . . well, actually, auroura borealis is all it is like. plus i am so agonized by that time, that the breaking of wind to me sounds like the angelic choir that accompanied charlton heston when he got the tablets form Yahweh. but louder. in fact you probably heard it if you were awake at 7 pm, pacific coast time. for those of you accross the ocean, that would be high noon, sunday march 26th. as a matter of fact, i just got a call from Slayer, saying could i please turn it down, because they were trying to practice in los angeles and they couldn’t hear themselves. why did i ever tive tom arraya my phone number, the whiney little girl?
i am trying to think of a way to solve this dillemma. i think where i went wrong is, i did not eat ENOUGH food; If i ate a whole bean burrito instead of a lousy raisin, i would have so much gas that the pressure would get so high it would have to transform into plasma, the fourth state of matter. i could then finally realize my dreams of cheap-affordable fusion power. In my ass. next step: joining the fucking X-men.