For Shit Sake

Nothing really gets me going like grown adults shitting their pants. Luckily, my clients feel comfortable sharing their juicy stories with me and lucky for you, they don’t mind me sharing them. One day, I will compile them all into a neatly sized bathroom book, For Shit Sake, because everyone can use a little motivation when it comes to getting their shit done.

Most of these stories have nothing to do with me, but this first story makes an example of a client who proudly does not follow my advice. To be clear, following my advice is always optional. You decide whether you want to feel like a sexy beast or the complete opposite the days following your colonic. For obvious reasons, the individuals in my stories will be referred to as Jane and John Doo. John Doo barely survived the smell of his own shit to tell the following dramatic tale:

I had gone to see Jen for help with some digestive issues. This was my first colonic.  It was a Friday afternoon when I left her office; I felt hydrated and “clean” from the inside.

She had told me for the first 2-3 days to take it easy on the heavy foods I generally consume and to try and eat a lot of salad and vegetables rather than a lot of fats and meat. So I ate a modest salad that first day. 

The next morning my wife and I decided to take the dog to the dog park. We played at the park and then decided to go to one of our favorite outdoor restaurants for brunch on this sunny 88F day.

So, one thing about me….a doctor once told me I have “compliance” problems (I do not obey instructions well, or at all). Arriving at brunch I decided that one day of rabbit food was plenty for my gut. Back to the old grind, my friend…

I ordered the liver pate, Thai mussels with a coconut cream sauce and crusty French bread along with a meat and cheese board. I washed all of this delicious food down with several cold pints of beer on this perfect summers day. It was GLORIOUS! Next, it was time to head to the pool for some continued day drinking!!

We got back to the lobby of the building and my stomach was a little “grumbly.”  Waiting for the elevator took a little longer than usual because of everyone going up to the pool. By the time I got into the elevator, I was pretty sure I needed to use the bathroom. By the time the elevator got to the 25th floor (where I live) I desperately needed to use the bathroom. I barely managed to get the key into the lock before my body decided it had had enough of all the decadent food I indulged in. I did not just sort of poop my pants….I wasn’t just turtle-heading… I was exploding in my pants like a one year old as I stand in the doorway next to my oblivious wife and dog. At this point, panic sets in.

I make it into the hallway and run to the bathroom with the dog (who thinks I’m playing) right behind me.  I am not playing. I get into the bathroom and slam the door shut as I frantically try to remove my jeans and underwear. I am still crapping my pants here. I rip my pants and underwear off, so now I am shitting on the bathroom floor trying to maneuver my shit canon to the toilet. I finally make it to the toilet. This episode is literally bringing out the worst in me. Mixed emotions of humiliation and anger quickly surface as I continue erupting on the toilet with what feels like no end in sight. A massive amount of foul smelling diarrhea is covering the floor and my underwear (those are going in the trash). It was then that I noticed brown paw marks on the floor and realized that I’ve taken the dog down with me.

In my haste to get my pants off I did not see him enter the room and as my diarrhea bomb was exploding in every direction, he got caught in the direct line of fire. The dog moves closer to me to exact his revenge and violently shakes the foul liquid from his fur. In doing so, he shotgun peppers everything in the bathroom. The homage to not following instructions is now all over the bathroom wall, the shower curtain and even the ceiling. It is everywhere!!!

My wife, totally unaware of all that has transpired is still getting ready for the pool. She calls into the bathroom, “Dennis and Sandy are on there way down here {they live on the 36th floor} for some drinks and we will all go to the pool together.”

This is obviously not something I am supportive of at this very moment in time. I have just now, finally stopped erupting enough to waddle to the door, open it and yell “NO! They can’t come over, PERIOD! We have to meet them at the pool.” Not expecting this kind of aggressive response from me, my wife rounds the corner for an explanation, takes one good look at my gaunt white face and replies, “Okay.”

The victorious dog, seizes the opportunity to escape the “shit show” and tries to make a run for it out of the bathroom. I manage to grab his glistening wet fur, drag him back and slam the door.

As I turn around, I catch a look at my mortifying reflection in the mirror. My face, matching the new wallpaper, is completely peppered with wet, brown diarrhea! My poor wife at this point only knows that for some reason, either on purpose or by accident, I have decided to rub diarrhea all over my face and for another unknown reason, the dog, which was dry 2 minutes ago, is now wet…..

She calls into the bathroom, “I am going to the pool.”

Two hours later, I am bathed, the dog is bathed, the bathroom is bleached. The shower curtain is in the trash, I have a load of wash going, I am less one pair of Armani underwear and I am at the pool with a water…..

The lesson……follow Jen’s instructions, or explain to your wife why you shit the dog and your face.

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