The IBS Diaries Vol. 21

Intern DC12/03/2019 4:15 PM

We’re back on week XXI for another war story taking place in the heart of tourist county, Navy Pier. We missed the IBS Superbowl last week, so send in any anecdotes inspired by the bLAcKOuT wEdNEsDAy beer shits + the all day eating contest the next day combo. Here’s a nice primer until then.

Let me set the scene. It’s Sunday, November 3rd, 2019. My girlfriend’s family invited me to take a trip to Chicago with them. I have self-diagnosed myself with ibs though it’s really just a milk allergy. So, we make the drive up and have some breakfast, I have a breakfast sandwich and coffee which is typically okay for me. We walk through downtown Chicago and I’m feeling great.

You can never fully trust that egg patty. Can turn on you in a blink. As soon as you take down the McDonald’s egg you’re on call. Handle with caution.

The day continues and we end up at Margaritaville at Navy Pier. I scan the menu for something that won’t leave me shitting up a storm with my girlfriend’s family in the middle of Chicago, so I go with a chicken sandwich. Apps come, I have some fried pickles, everything’s great. I eat my chicken sandwich and hope that everything will continue to go well. We make our way to the Crystal Gardens, Chicago’s finest greenhouse located in the beautiful Navy Pier. This is the moment that I knew something was wrong. Very wrong. I feel the rumbles come upon me like a bad thunderstorm. I knew I had 5 minutes tops before the chicken sandwich came out of me like a fucking volcano. I tell my girlfriend I’m not feeling well, and she reassures me that her family doesn’t mind my problem.

I mean of course your girlfriend’s parents “don’t mind” that you have IBS, but we still don’t need them being ringside for this. We don’t need them being reminded of you with feces falling down your leg every time they see you after this. Hardly necessary. Being front row for someone having a breach is a lasting impression. No one forgets the girl who peed her pants in 4th grade.

I locate a bathroom which could pass for a shitty janitors closet lodged in the corner of the planetarium. I release my bowels into a not nearly sanitary toilet. At this point, I thought I was okay, and would be able to join back with her family after a brief shit-stop. We continue to walk around, having a good time when I feel the thunderstorm return. Round 2. Halftime’s over. Except this time, we’re in the middle of downtown Chicago. No good options here. My girlfriend insures me that we’re leaving soon, though we all know 1 hour is NOT the ideal grace period.

Potential witnesses: Girlfriend’s parents, the streets

Pants Situation: This is post-lunch with his girlfriend’s rents so we can assume some nice slacks are up for sacrifice.

Current form of transit: Foot, traveling with the potential witnesses. New play call immediately.

Nearest Restroom: TBD

I scramble looking for a bathroom and let everyone know I don’t feel good. I’m on Wabash Ave. with a Starbucks in sight. We continue our walk and about 200 yards out I feel it. My asshole loosens and my clenched rectum goes limp. There is shit running down my leg. I have an extremely uncomfortable 100 yard ‘I just shit myself’ walk, and make my way into the starbucks. A line. There’s a fucking line. Just incase my odds could not possibly become worse, I find myself standing in a line with literal shit in my pants.

Man down, have to remain calm. The Pants Situation comes in heavy here. You need to be wearing the perfect forcefield to be able to keep everything confidential. Highly unlikely in this case.

I wait the longest 3 minutes of my life and unleash on the poor starbucks floor. Yes, not only did i shit my pants, but the floor was a casualty as well. I very carefully take my pants and underwear off and throw the underwear in the trash like Christian Watford against Kentucky in 2011. After my campout in the bathroom, I return to my girlfriend’s family sitting in Starbucks and apologize for taking so long while hoping her dad or brother don’t need to piss before we leave. I take the most uncomfortable walk of my life back to the parking garage, and we head home. Viva.

Prayers to the barista who had to clean up that collateral damage. But no one found out who the artist of those walls/floor was and that’s what matters most in IBS life. No evidence, no trial.

Thanks for coming out this week, keep sending in your comeback stories to djconrad41@gmail.com.

Old entries:

IBS Diaries Vol 5: Blizzard Beach

IBS Diaries Vol 6: Hotel HotBox

IBS Diaries Vol 7: Hand Soap Showers

IBS Diaries Vol 8: Fried Egg Run

The IBS Diaries Vol. 9: The IBS Queen

The IBS Diaries Vol. 10