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The IBS Diaries Vol. 8: Fried Egg Run

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Quick thanks to everyone who’s been unsuppressing their stories for us each week. Reminder that your secrets are safe with the country. Now let’s get into it already and give this week’s victim our attention as he takes the floor.

Good Morning Danny,

It was a beautiful summer day and I had just arrived home from work. I have been running a lot as of late, and typically I like to do my runs right when I get home in order to avoid hitting the couch for the count and not getting up. However, on this particular day I decided I would have a quick bite prior to my run, as I was absolutely famished from a long day sitting behind a desk. As I am sure most people are aware, eating 15 minutes before going for a run is not a great idea. You are definitely putting yourself at a high risk of developing a debilitating cramp/stitch, or worse, shaking that fried egg sandwich up in your stomach like a magic bullet, eventually resulting in a blown out o-ring on the iron throne or back alley.

Personally I don’t trust myself to eat before I run so I never go running just to play it safe. If you are going to eat, dairy products are rarely the go-to food group you wanna target. Fried eggs in particular. They’re enough of a liability as is without mixing a jog in afterwards. They also fall under the category of foods that could put anyone in the middle of a grace period. Our guy needs to realize what he’s going up against here.

So I crush my fried egg sandwich, throw on my running gear, and hit the dusty trail. I do the same loop every time. It takes me down into the local river valley and then back up into the heart of downtown and by an avenue of street front bar and restaurant patios. Not just any bar and restaurant patios, but some of the busiest in town, and ones which my friends and acquaintances frequent on a daily basis. Not to mention I live down the street from these bars, so I am regularly patron myself and most of the waitresses could pick my face out in a police suspect lineup.

I am entering the final leg of my run and have about a mile and massive hill to conquer until I am home. Que the warning gurgle. I think to myself “hmm that is not good, but I don’t deal with IBS regularly, so I should be fine”, however, your IBS Diaries blog is still fresh in my mind and thinking about it causes a bit of worry. Now if you know anything about running you would know it takes the average person about 7 to 10 minutes to run a mile. And if you have read any of the previous IBS Diaries you know you have about 8 minutes after the warning gurgle sounds to get to a toilet. The numbers aren’t adding up in my favour at this point. You also know running is one of the worst things you can do once the warning gurgle hits. However, I am on a run and I haven’t had a lot of history with IBS, so I continue to run, unknowingly shaking up the shit stew that is brewing in my stomach.

Always remember during an attack—you can hide but you can’t run. Anonymous is a rookie in the game so unfortunately he’ll have to learn the hard way like our forefathers before us. Happens to the best of us and it will to the rest of us. But the 1st warning siren has sounded meaning it’s now time we survey the scene to see what the possible aftermath of an accident could be looking like here.

Potential witnesses: Every single vehicle entering and leaving downtown during rush hour. The 5th hole green of the local municipal golf course.

Current form of transit: On foot with zero other options for transit. I continue running too…huge mistake.

Pants situation: Flying around in a brand spanking new pair of 2-in-1 running shorts with an inner compression layer. Usually shorts are bad news for shitting your pants, but the inner compression layer will serve as a great diaper. No underwear either, so there is nothing to wipe with.

Nearest restroom: A relatively classy bar/lounge/restaurant. Not the most ideal place to be flying into wearing running gear and sweating and asking to use the bathroom. I also frequent this establishment, so it would not be a good look.

Compression shorts are HUGE for shitting your pants. From what I’ve heard. Like this guy almost has nothing to worry about now actually. We don’t want to self destruct unless we absolutely have to, but if you’re going to, then compression shorts may be the number 1 draft pick you want in your Pants Situation. However, the spandex material can be very easily breached. So that diarrhea might be going nowhere, but 9.9/10 times it’s bleeding through to your shorts. But, in this particular case, the secureness of the poo is more important than the poo breaching; The potential stain(s) becoming visible through pant is fine so long as you’re able to turn yourself away/hide it from any potential witnesses, but if the poo isn’t properly secured by the compression shorts here then all of Anonymous’s potential witnesses will immediately see it running down his legs, thus blowing his cover. The whole thing is an extremely delicate situation and should be handled as such.

As I get halfway up the hill I no longer am relaxed. I know something very bad is happening. I crank the speed and make a hard Larry to a set of stairs, hoping to cut some time off. At this point I am still in the river valley and debating on unloading in the bush, which I should’ve done. There would have been no witnesses, but I panicked because I was wearing 2-in-1 compression shorts with no underwear. I had nothing to wipe with. I keep flying up the stairs and my running app notifies me I am setting a record 1 mile pace.
Rarely do we talk about the upside of irritable bowels in these blogs, but being on the verge of a flash flood is peak motivation. You’re so vulnerable yet you still feel like you can kill someone with your barehands if it meant getting to a toilet in time. It’s like when you hear stories about a mother miraculously lifting up a car that her kid’s trapped under. Just pure unadulterated adrenaline mixed in with survival instincts.
Finally I hit flat ground again, which is the good news. The bad news is that I am now front and center downtown on bar and restaurant row and I am really thinking I could explode at any moment in front of all the patrons on the patio. However, I make it through the gauntlet and have about 200 yards until I reach my condo. I get into my lobby and am praying to any god that will listen to please let me make it to my room and not paint the walls of my condo’s lobby something between a maroon red and a night black.
Never good when you resort to polytheism during the grace period. That’s not to say we haven’t all been there though. Once you start bending Commandments you know you’re fucked. The Grace period scaries inevitably on deck now. Prepare for impact.
My condo is only 5 floors, so it has one of the slowest elevators known to man. I decided to take my chances with the extra motion and dart up the 4 flights of stairs in order to cut some time. I get to my front door and fly through in Cosmo Kramer type fashion, stiff arm my roommates girlfriend, and make it to my room. My roommate is doing laundry right next to the bathroom door and he can see the panic in my face and immediately knows what is going on. He boots the door open and I fly in and rip the compressions down. My roommate, god bless his soul, fires up the fan and closes the door behind and I explode with less than 2 seconds left on the shot clock. Never have I felt such relief.
- Anonymous

There’s nothing better than when a buddy gets it. The difference between him holding the door open and him not holding said door open there could have been night and day. Great assist for the win.

These diaries were due for some good morale, haven’t had a happy ending around here in weeks. We thank Anonymous and the Anonymi before him for sharing their tales with us. Per usual, send in yours for next week to djconrad41@gmail.com so we can go over what happened together. Thanks for comin’ out.

Catch up on some past diaries in the mean time:

IBS Diaries Vol 1.

IBS Diaries Vol 2.

IBS Diaries Vol 3.

IBS Diaries Vol 4.

IBS Diaries Vol 5: Blizzard Beach

IBS Diaries Vol 6: Hotel HotBox

IBS Diaries Vol 7: Hand Soap Showers