As some of you may know, and others are about to find out, I fell off a cliff when I was 17, shattering my left thigh, and had to get life-flighted to Cleveland Metro Hospital. However, that incident merely set the stage for easily one of the worst night’s of my entire life: 

Twas Andy’s last night in the hospital, after a week of sensational things. From the pain of a fresh mended leg, to the mindless joy  only morphine can bring.

Andy was sure he was ready to leave, but his doctors just weren’t. His ills were easily exploited. His parents had lots of insurance.

Andy’s friend Dan, who was present for the leg breaking debacle, came to see him and kindly smuggled him a delicious burrito. But this was no ordinary burrito. This was a four-pound-ring-of-fire-blood-in-your-stool-Chipotle burrito:  a prospect for which Andy, after six days of hospital food, was as excited as he was scared. 

Andy appreciated his friend’s gesture and did not want to be rude. So as Dan looked on with expectant eyes, Andy ate the whole thing, despite his stomach’s dwindling size.

Twas not til much later, as Andy awoke to feel his thigh greatly swollen, that the grumblings of his insides began, arising mainly from his colon.

“Oh dear,” Andy thought as he pulled it together. “This may be a storm that I’m unable to weather.”

“I may pass out in my struggle to stand, but if my body stays idle, I’ll surely crap my pants.”  So with haste Andy stood, bearing his pain with a frown, and paint that porcelain bowl he did, a reddish greenish, golden brown.

With his troubles at bay, Andy trudged back to bed like a slug, where he collapsed and pressed the call button, for he wanted more drugs. The morphine drip came and he slept, if only for a short spell. This time his nausea applied a pressure the drugs could not quell.

Again he fought the urge, hoping sleep could persevere; but his flatulence betrayed him, his cornhole would not adhere. Andy rushed to the bed’s edge, dragging his useless leg o’er the side. But with each sudden move came a shift: these squirts would not be denied.

He was tired and he was hurting, his roommates presence ceased to matter. Andy could not walk AND clench his cheeks, so with each labored step came a splatter. Though the splatters were small, he wore naught but a gown. With no undies to stay them, the splatters shot outward, and down.

He battled the second wave, and the third, and the fourth, bemused how no one could notice such a shit covered floor. Then finally he slept, and awoke in such a great mood. For his stomach had settled, and the floor looked brand new.

Then, Andy’s mother walked in as the morphine drip hit his blood. “How are you feeling?” she asked, like a concerned mother should. “I heard about your accident. Are you alright? The doctors are concerned. I told them you’d stay one more night.”

Andy wanted to protest, to present an argument, to cry. But he gave only a smile. He didn’t care. He was high.