I have never, ever appreciated the taste of chilli - much less, its horrendous aftereffects that come as salvos fired from my asshole to our poor, poor toilet; its sides melting with the sheer corrosive strength of post-chilli poop. I feel sorry for the thing, really.
Last week, my friend decided to order some chilli from Zippy’s - for me. It was an exercise of sheer horror from me. When my plate arrived, my face turned into a caricature of Edvard Munch’s Scream. But I did not protest. For there are matters far more important than gastronomical disasters - friendship, for one (not anymore).
“MMMM, it’s good!”, I said, as I downed spoon after spoon of that horrendous goop. I did my best not to look at the plate, lest I imagine it turning into a bowl of severed appendages, blood dripping from my chin.
“YUM, this American food sure is GREAT”, I said, through gritted teeth. I tried to think of happy things. Like fish and chips with chicken salt; steak sandwiches laced with beet root.
“Really?”, my friend said. “You should try it with biscuits!”. She broke her crackers and laid it on the bowl. She pushed me to consume more of the Unfood, and my sphincter contracted to a pinhole out of terror.
I came home thirty minutes later, my body tired from all that chewing and masticating and swallowing. I laid my body on the sleeping bag, and prepared myself for a long, good rest.
Suddenly, a sound. It was of something I dare not imagine; my mind conjured images of slimey, black monsters from a moist dungeon.
I tried to close my eyes and will myself to sleep. But the sounds kept coming, like bass drums from a throbbing, pulsing monster-flesh mound.
The sound again. This time, it came with a scent. The scent of rot; the funk of twenty thousand years. I felt my nose shriveling to tiny stubs of unuseable flesh - soon enough, I will no longer be able to smell.
I tried to cover my nose, to protect it from smell-horrors. But the abomination will not stop, and it dug through fabric like acidic vapors.
I steeled myself, and looked for the source.
It was me farting.
*events, people may have been redacted from what actually happened.
Filed under: Blogging by John Contad
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