Ben Morrison blogs with an abundance of humor about Crohn's disease.See all posts »
Comedian Ben Morrison gets graphic in his latest installment documenting his life a Jedi with Crohn's disease.
So there I was, standing in the bathroom of a cheap Thai restaurant in East Hollywood. The date was going well, I had taken some chick out for a meal and was feeling pretty good about my chances. She was laughing at my jokes, giving me flirtatious asides, and even suggested we get out of there to see where the evening would take us. So full of pomp and hormones, I made a beeline to the bathroom to relieve some contents and get on with it.
I stared at myself in the mirror, practicing sexy faces. She had ordered the coconut curry and while it was beginning to kick box in my midsection I was unstoppable.
That is until I crapped myself.
There’s a moment in every Crohn’s patient ‘s life where reality comes crashing through our anus and we are given a set of circumstances that are stinky and need attention, right now. This was one of them. Not only had I taken far too long trying to seduce myself in the mirror, but there was no easy solution to this situation. Cowboy-waking into a stall I lowered my gear to lay eyes upon the carnage, and it was grand.
Streaked across the crotch of my boxer briefs lay a swampy mix of liquid curry. Assessing my options, it quickly became clear that these shorts were totaled and should be 86’d. While I have longstanding emotional relationships with my underwear I said a quick eulogy and stripped them off, guarding my nose from the frothy invasion. Luckily I had jettisoned the curry in such a forceful burst my cheeks required little cleaning, which is why you always have to be thankful for the little wins. Wrapping up the disgraced undies in a cocoon like husk of paper towels, my drawers looked like they had been mummified by a lactose intolerant Egyptian society. I shoved them into the towel receptacle making sure to stuff them under the already nasty layer of discarded paper. I couldn’t risk the next patron discovering my shameful bundle.
Shooting myself a final sexy look just to make sure I could still be hot after dooking in my pants, I washed my hands with the diligence of an assassin clearing his gun of prints and returned to the restaurant.
“What took you so long?” she asked.
“Oh nothing” I said, “got a phone call”, thinking “in my butt” with a quiet snicker.
I gotta admit I felt like a Jedi knight, not only had I cleaned up the crime-scene like CSI: Small Intestine, while I was in the bathroom she had taken care of the bill.
“You wanna go back to my place? I asked, thinking “so I can get some underwear”.
“Sure” she said.
And we got up and left.