WARNING! If you don't like toilet humor then DO NOT PROCEED! Consider yourself warned.
The problem may have well started when I ordered Stromboli after band practice Fri. night.
We are at Pizza Inn.....
"What would you like sir?"
"I'll have the Stromboli..."
Smile. Quizzical look. Blank Stare.
Quizzical smile. Non-recognition of verbal patterns coming from customer to waitress.
"I'll have the SStrommmbbolllayyyy...."
By now the chatter of my band/table mates had stopped. What is he ordering?
Friend/bass player Bill and I are now experimenting with the various ways to say Stromboli.
Waitress: "I have never heard of that."
I open the menu and point and say "Ssstrommbboleeeee!"
Waitress: "Nobody's ever ordered that before.
That should have been my first clue.
I did indeed have a medium order of Stromboli of which I ate half of, the other half in a Go-Box for
Next Morning....Cold Stromboli for breakfast..add one Cinnabon 15 minutes later.
This is when the Dark Side began to take over my innards, soon to begin it's quest for domination of
the Force and all who consider it holy.
First came a belch....... Then another belch...and another and (you get the picture).
My family says, "Gawwwwd!, who farted?"
Says I proudly, "That was no fart, that was a belch!"
"Stay away from me!" ........"Okay, no problem."
Cut to: Five hours of belching, take my Nexium, realize that at any moment this thing could reverse itself
as my lower abdomen begins rumbling and cramping.
Time to load up to play at the aforementioned benefit for Brother Tod. On the ride over I warn Bill and Laurie that there could be trouble as I have this intestinal problem that won't go away.
The windows are soon lowered with cries for help coming from the front and back seat.
Arrive at the Civic Center and unload and begin to set up the sound system, with a warning: "I'm having a
problem, so if I tell you not to walk over here or there you'd best listen to me"
My Christian brothers and sisters happily oblige my request.
I'm desperately waiting for this to conclude itself with a well timed trip to the restroom. After setting
up the sound system, tuning instruments and generally bouncing off the wall for over an hour I make the
"I'm going to the bathroom, wish me well."
The first thing I noticed in the bathroom was a red hat, with some kind of glue and a white beard and some
clothes in the floor and then black boots and red pants attached to a man pacing back and forth in front of a 30 foot mirror.
I say, "Hey."
He says, " "
I pick my stall and say a small prayer that all will be well.
All is not well as the 4Th of July in December in stall #1 at the Civic Center, in the second floor men's bathroom commences.
Sounds and squeals never before heard from this man's ears are richocheting off the stall door and bouncing off the walls of the restroom. I never studied Commode Physics but I have learned that a commode does indeed make a fine echo chamber and has nary a conscience in buffeting the human condition of food poisoning.
Belches followed wind for at least ten minutes, intermingled only by my laughing at the pure silliness of the situation.
After making the strategic battle decision that all is as well as can be for this moment I once again say a prayer that I can make it through our performance without embarassing myself or literally making my bandmates sick. So, I open the stall door and there stands;
Kris Kringle. Yes the one and only Santa himself. PaPa Gigio. The betrayer of my youth. The no horse bringing ( Christmas 1968) cookie eatin' fatman.
Santa is looking at himself in the mirror. Slowly his head turns to see the tortured soul in Stall#1 coming out, head down, eyes half closed praying, "Please don't look Santa, please don't look Santa..."
But Santa did look. Santa watched me wash my hands and straighten my shirt. Santa watched me stumble out the door.
Santa did not ask me what I wanted for Christmas. Did not aske me if I'd been a good boy. Santa did not offer his sure expertise on the hazards of leftovers or Sssstrrrommmbollleeee from Pizza Inn.
I don't know what to think of Santa anymore.
ps. (Added Sunday night)
All's well that ends well.