Please Pass the Imodium

The other day, before taking in War Horse, we ordered some Chinese food.
"Mark, this stuff tastes kind of funky."
"What is that?"
"It's called General Tso's wontons."
"Well if they don't taste right, don't eat any."
"I'm gonna eat one more... uh huh, funky. Very funky."

I should have known the next morning, when Chandler barfed one of those wontons up in the middle of the street, that things weren't right. Sure enough, by late in the afternoon, the day after eating those funky wontons, I was spending more time on the pot than in front of the television. It was horrible. It was like somebody had connected a garden hose to my culo and turned it on. All evening, and late into the night, I was running back and forth to the bathroom. I was dehydrated and weak by the time I got up at 1:30 in the morning to make one more trip. As I stood there in the dark struggling to get on the toilet before I exploded, things started to get fuzzy. I knew that feeling, I was fainting. When I came to, my head was in the shower, my arm was twisted around into a pretzel, and I still felt that ominous pressure in my gut. I lay there like a beached whale calling out for Mark to come and help me. For five minutes I called out for help as blood spurted out of my elbow. Slowly I dragged myself closer to the door, too weak to get up off the floor. Now I don't fault Mark for not waking up right away, but my beloved dogs. Those two little animals that I feed, that I walk, whose poop I pick up, who can hear a bag of pretzels open from a mile away, did not get out of bed to see why I was calling for help.

My doctor has me on Cipro now and I’m not allowed to eat any of my favorite foods. Apparently if you screw up your innards you are only allowed to eat the crap your mom used to feed you when you were six months old. I do know I won't be eating Chinese food for a long time.