I had so much fun on the Bud Light cruise that I went to all the Bud Light parties the next summer to try and win again.
No such luck.
In fact. Terrible, terrible luck.
The last party night, I went with Cousin to double our odds of getting a winning text message to be a finalist. I had that gut feeling. The one you get right before you get struck by lightning, or get into a car accident, or have a pregnancy scare.
It was palatable. I knew we had it. Tonight, we were going to win the cruise.
We showed up super early. I think we were literally the only people there. It was like, 8:30 or 9:00. Our plan was to get a stamp, and go to our favorite pub down the street, and come back to the club ten minutes before the draw.
It was an excellent plan.
But it turned out that the gut feeling I was having was something not premonition, but something I ate. Nearly as soon as we got into the club, it hit me. I had to shit. Right now.
I have a serious hate on for bar bathrooms. Not sure why, but the men's bathroom is always a wreck. Even though we were the first people there, the stall looked like it had recently been in a Quentin Tarantino film. The seat was barely hanging on with one of its hinges, and had deep scratches in it like someone had tried to flush their mongoose.
I sat down.
And shat.
And shat. And shat.
It was coming out like my rectum turned on a hose. All liquid. And the smell was rank. The bathroom attendant used a whole can of Axe to try and cover it up. I heard him clear his throat a dozen times. I think he was trying not to vomit.
It was awful.
I got a text from Cousin: "You alright?"
"No, I think my internal organs have decided to evacuate in liquid form through my anus."
Supportive as always: "Hahahhaaa, omg I'm crying"
Many minutes later it finally subsided and I had a chance to breathe. I noticed I was sweating, and that my ass was sliding around the barely attached seat. I thought to myself, "Oh god, please be sweat on my ass cheeks." I grabbed some tissue and checked. Just sweat, thank Jesus.
I grabbed some more tissue, and started to wipe. But I was not done. But I did not know this.
As soon as my wiping action crossed my asshole, more liquid came out. I barely felt it come out. But I definitely felt it on my hand.
I had just shit.
On my hand.
In a bar bathroom.
Fuck me.
Fuck me sideways.
At least there was enough tissue to do a thorough scrub. I cleaned my hand off the best I could.
You know when you have chicken wings, and you clean your hands off with those wet wipes, and you're like, "I'm super clean!", but somehow you miss that spot on the base of your pinky?
I had a flash of that happening. Except it would be my own feces - not barbeque sauce - that I might find an hour later still clinging to my hand.
I scrubbed again.
And then I exited the stall. The bathroom attendant looked at me through teary eyes. I couldn't say anything. I just put my hand out and let him pile some soap in my palm. I had damaged this man. Probably for life.
I finally got back to Cousin, and we left to go to the pub down the street.
About 15 minutes and one martini later, she looked at me and said, "I'm just not feeling well tonight. I think we should just go."
I protested.
Yes, even after shitting out more insides than I knew I had, and doing a medical grade scrub in the bar sink, I STILL wanted to stay long enough to find out if we had won the cruise. But, I was honestly kind of thinking the same thing.
I wanted to go home, too.
So we left. We went back to Cousin's place.
Just as we were winding down - her snuggling into the blankets on her futon, and me just starting to close my eyes on her bed - she said, very quietly: "Fuck."
"What's the matter?"
"Oh my god, I feel sick."
"What?"
"I just got a text from Bud Light. We're finalists."
...
"Cousin... You owe me a cruise."
