THE WALMART EXLAX STORY
This morning I awoke in a state of greater nausea than any human has ever encountered, save for Courtney Love's OB/GYN. The usual buffet of Tums, Pepto and Ginger Ale weren't doing the trick, and I am far too delicate a flower to pull the Tracey Gold Special. No, I figured to quell my nausea, it would be best to just get the shit out of my system. Literally.
So, riding the churning waters of nausea's digestive ocean, I made my way to the local Eckerd Drug store, in search of Extreme Measures. Few were to be found. Then, my eyes fell upon a certain box, one that may as well have contained a bright yellow DANGER sign. A disappointing sigh left my lungs, and, much like when they had to kill Old Yeller, I realized that I had no other choice.
I grabbed the box of Ex-Lax, and brought it to the counter, hidden of course under a bag of cough drops and a Kit-Kat, lest anyone behind me in line gain pleasure in the news that I'd be spending my day acting as a human fire hose. To speed up the process, I also procured a Moe's burrito, known worldwide for its cleansing powers. Still horrifically nauseated, I return to home and immediately took the recommended dosage of two tablets. The package told me that I was supposed to take two per day, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I then sat in my chair and waited for the inevitable "Rumble in the Jungle."
Two hours passed. No Rumble. No Jungle. No nothing. And of course it's not like I could go anywhere, because I knew that the second I left my dorm, that familiar bubble will hit. Isn't this stuff supposed to work quickly? Meanwhile, I'm still feeling like it's my first trimester. Something must be done. I looked at the box, examined my nauseous state, and made the executive decision to take two more Ex-Lax.
3pm came. Certainly now, after taking TWICE the recommended dosage, my system will be cleared. Right? 3:30. Notihng. 4:00. Not even a rumble. 4:30. Still nauseous, no exit in sight. 5pm. NO POOPIE. 6pm. NO POOPIE! WHAT THE FUCK?
Dinnertime struck, and being a diabetic, I have to eat at regular times or face even greater consequences than nausea or whatever this Ex-Lax would provide. So I ate, figuring maybe adding something to my stomach would either quell my nausea, or at the very least, jostle something to get the floodgates open. Right? I ordered Chinese takeout (that'll work for sure!), and consumed it post-haste, hoping to jostle the Colon Gods.
7pm now. I was getting gravely concerned. I hadn't gone eight hours without going to the bathroom in the past three months, and NOW, after FOUR ex-lax, I CAN'T GO???? I stare at the box. It taunts me a little bit, especially its warnings of "do not take more than two in a day" and "Do not take if you are a breastfeeding baby." I then make the fateful decision to turn four ex-lax into SIX. For you Math majors, that's three times the recommended dosage.
But it got even weirder. 8pm. No dice. Nine o clock...nothin...Ten? Not even a wet fart!
Now I was getting very annoyed and painfully nauseous. I had eaten two meals, taken six ex-lax, and yet the TP roll on my desk was sitting there, virginally unused, and the latest Sporting News lonely and unread. So, nauseous, tired, and frustrated, at midnight, I decided to go to Wal-Mart and get some milk and some Ny-Quil, to aid in sleep. Also, it should be noted that the DeLand Wal-Mart is the BIGGEST WALMART IN FLORIDA!!! And for a state south of the Mason-Dixon, that must mean that it's "pretty friggin huge."
So I hop in my car and start making my way towards Wal-Mart. And of course, almost as scripted, only THEN do I start to feel my first digestive rumble. And a second rumble. And a third, And VERY QUICKLY, my stomach is bubbling, rumbling, twisting and twirling as if I have a colonic centrifuge in full gear. But by this point I've gone too far. "Oh Shit" is all that can escape through my lips as I pull into the SuperGiantHugeMassiveMega Walmart Parking lot, and waddle into Capitalism Gone Wrong, reasoning "Okay, I'll just pick up my milk and NyQuil, and safely make it home, where I can rocket pure evil out of my colon without offending Wal-Mart shoppers." I pick up my basket, and waddle on down to get my milk, which is in one corner of the Wal-Mart complex. Earthquake-like rumblings are coming from my bladderial region now, and by this point the waddle has turned into a sliding saunter. I grab my half-gallon of moo juice, and start looking for the NyQuil.
Now I'm convinced that my friendly, blue-vested Wal-Mart employee must have seen the vein popping out of my forehead and the strained look on my face when I asked her the simple question "Where is the pharmacy section? I need some NyQuil so I can sleep." How did I know she noticed my expression? Because, with the look of sympathy that one gives to a girl who just watched her dog get run over, she removed a map (a map!) from her pocket, and pointed to the bottom left corner of that map. "You are here," she sympathetically remarked, and, in a cruel twist of fate, pointed to the top right corner of the map, which was roughly FIFTY MILES AWAY and said "the pharmacy is there." I sighed.a great, burdensome sigh that's subtlety could have been easily picked up by Helen Keller. I can make it. I can make it. I can make it. Just a little farther. Past the scores of Kathie Lee Sweatshop Clothing. Past the racks of Oprah Magazines. Only a little farther. Past the auto section. Just a bit more. Past the eyeglass center (WHO THE FUCK BUYS EYEGLASSES AT WALMART? AAAHHH!) Finally, I found the pharmacy section, and the same wave of relief that washed over Columbus when he discovered the New World came over me. Triumphantly, I picked up my NyQuil, and turned around to ring up my goods when......
Sweet Jesus. It hit, and with furious vengeance. And while this story would probably have been funnier if I had soiled myself inside the Wal-Mart, I am proud to say that I ran with Jesse Owens-like speed to the Restroom, and LAID WASTE to their comode. I expelled with the violence and fury of a NASA launch roughly everything I'd eaten since the Carter administration. I may or may not have cried. I courtesy flushed FOUR TIMES. Surprisingly however, I didn't make a mess, every missile reached its target, and I cleaned up and washed my hands for a good five minutes, checked in the mirror to make sure all of my body parts were still attached, as I felt like I had just birthed a hurricane.
I emerged from the bathroom, soaked in sweat, shaking, and feeling very cold (of course, I had lost about ten percent of my body weight in the process), and returned to the scene of my dropped NyQuil. I picked up my basket and what was left of my dignity, and then, wobbly-kneed, checked out my items. The counter girl attempted to strike up conversation with me, but I was in a state of shock, and able to only mumble unintelligible noises. I grabbed my purchased items, returned to my car, and drove home relieved and a little dizzy.
I slept better that night than I had in weeks.