So, as I have been for the past few days, I got drunk last night. Slightly more than before, it has to be said. Anyhow. Dinner was late, around 9 in the evening. Around eleven, me and John headed to Asda, for to get food. Twelve, I start drinking and, feeling peckish, convert two slices of bread, lots of ham, some brown sauce and lots of cheese into an emergency butty.
I felt fine afterwards (I'd been sloshing Dr Pepper and vodka together at about 2:1, and was on my third). Finished my drink, poured yet another. After that one, I felt rather hungry again, and devoured a large bag of salt and vinegar kettle chips, before going to sleep. And waking up four hours earlier.
Only when I woke up was I sober enough to realise how much I'd eaten. The fact it felt like I'd been shot with a bowel disrupter was a dead giveaway. I will fair admit that with the amount of concentrated matter in my digestive tract, it required a fair amount of straining[1]. After a good twenty minutes, there were the stirrings of movement. Strange, painful movement. Not like Stormy's last treasure from rotten.com, but it was getting there. There was something the size and weight of Denmark trying to eject itself from my arse. For the uneducated[2], this is a rather uncomfortable process. Panting and halfway to throwing up afterwards, I tried getting back to sleep.
No such luck. Same feeling, like the amount of fibre in my diet has accrued into a neutron mass or something. More straining, this more uncomfortable than the last. I swear, after I flushed the second time the fucking thing had put a sizable dent in the porcelain. Seriously, this was a shit of bog-destroying capabilities. I'm glad it was too early for Steve to be up or I'd have had to call a hazardous waste disposal team for his safety.
Round three was nowhere near the problem that the first two were. That one was just need, not bowel-disrupter-leading-to-dwarf-star-tu
jackslack taught me how to play Button Men online.
[1]: I've had a problem with acid indigestion for over a year, straining is therefore a bad idea.
[2]: And if you are educated from anything other than similar situations, I don't want to know. This means you, benny.
I felt fine afterwards (I'd been sloshing Dr Pepper and vodka together at about 2:1, and was on my third). Finished my drink, poured yet another. After that one, I felt rather hungry again, and devoured a large bag of salt and vinegar kettle chips, before going to sleep. And waking up four hours earlier.
Only when I woke up was I sober enough to realise how much I'd eaten. The fact it felt like I'd been shot with a bowel disrupter was a dead giveaway. I will fair admit that with the amount of concentrated matter in my digestive tract, it required a fair amount of straining[1]. After a good twenty minutes, there were the stirrings of movement. Strange, painful movement. Not like Stormy's last treasure from rotten.com, but it was getting there. There was something the size and weight of Denmark trying to eject itself from my arse. For the uneducated[2], this is a rather uncomfortable process. Panting and halfway to throwing up afterwards, I tried getting back to sleep.
No such luck. Same feeling, like the amount of fibre in my diet has accrued into a neutron mass or something. More straining, this more uncomfortable than the last. I swear, after I flushed the second time the fucking thing had put a sizable dent in the porcelain. Seriously, this was a shit of bog-destroying capabilities. I'm glad it was too early for Steve to be up or I'd have had to call a hazardous waste disposal team for his safety.
Round three was nowhere near the problem that the first two were. That one was just need, not bowel-disrupter-leading-to-dwarf-star-tu
jackslack taught me how to play Button Men online.[1]: I've had a problem with acid indigestion for over a year, straining is therefore a bad idea.
[2]: And if you are educated from anything other than similar situations, I don't want to know. This means you, benny.
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