When you're at your desk and everything is seemingly normal. You had some turkey and a salad for dinner last night with a few glasses of scotch: nothing out of the ordinary. You had a nice breakfast of eggs with ham and veggies.
Then, suddenly, like South Park Satan himself poking his horney head out of the depths of hell.. you feel it.
It: That feeling that is the definition of inescapable, unmistakable anguish. You feel as if a small rattle snake ate a tarantula (which is still alive in its stomach and fighting furiously to get out), then slithered through broken beer bottles and into a teleporter which led it directly to your colon.
You know that the only solution is to evacuate your bowels like they were Chernobyl on April 26, 1986. You tactically power walk to the kitchen like a soccer mom at noon on a Sunday with 5 pound dumbbells strapped to her palms. You pour 3/4 a cup of black coffee and fill the rest with ice water; you do not have time to wait for the transfer of heat to run its course. Isaac Newton doesn't know your struggle. The expression on your face is the same one the CIA trains its operatives to make if being interrogated.
Having downed two cups of watered down black coffee, you make for the restroom. The handycap stall is empty: Our first victory. You enter swiftly. The cripples can wait. They get the best parking spots. Let us have this one thing. They probably have the option of nonchalantly shitting in a bag anyway with toilets just being a luxury.
Both tarantulas and snakes can apparently go for a very long time without oxygen. Do your bowels have oxygen in them? Do spiders even breathe? You commit to looking into this later.
The toilet seat is clean: Another victory. You lay down four layers of toilet paper over the seat so as not to catch AIDS from the one minority who works at your office. You take off your pants, roll up your sleeves up past your elbows, unbutton your shirt down to your sternum, and grasp your phone with both hands. Gladiator music begins to play.
The waiting game begins. You can feel the serpent squirm, yet your exit port refuses to dilate. You begin to sympathize with pregnant women. At least they get a spinal tap. Or drugs if they're terrible people.
No progress yet. You have experienced about a dozen different sensations at this point. You wonder whether anybody has ever done a spinal tap with a MasterCard. This is added to your list of things to look into once you are free from the clutches of Nagini. Or rather, once it's free from yours.
You distract yourself by messaging stupid shit to fat girls you matched with four days ago on Tinder. One replies immediately. You inform her of your anguish.
As the minutes tick on, the dreadful sequence of quasi-alien sensations gradually decrease in intensity. You are relieved, but at the same time concerned as to what kind of nether beast resides inside of your body at this very moment. The armpits of your shirt are soaked. Fuck it. It can stay as long as it keeps quiet. All serpentine infractions will be forgiven so long as the sensations go away.
You feel comfortable enough to go back to your desk. After several deep breaths and a few more minutes of swiping right on Tinder, you muster the strength to get dressed. Right after wiping three times for good measure (both ass and brow).
As you walk back, you begin to feel ecstatic. Both the serpent and the spider are either dead or dormant. Soon, Brother Caffeine will do to your bowels what that one asshole who never learned to cram does to the entire campus during finals. You look forward to the inevitable sensation of a freshly-birthed galaxy ready to burst out of you with no resistance. This is immaculate conception.
