sourdough story
A Shopping Disaster
I went grocery shopping recently while not being altogether sure that course of action was a wise one. You see, the previous evening I had prepared and consumed a massive quantity of my patented 'You’re definitely going to poop yourself' chili. Tasty stuff, hot to the point of being painful, which comes with a written guarantee from me, that if you eat this potion the next day, both of your butt cheeks will fall off.
Surprisingly I had awakened that morning, and even after two cups of coffee nothing happened. Despite habanera peppers swimming their way through my intestinal tract, I appeared to be unable to create the usual morning symphony referred to by my next-door neighbors as thunder and lightning.
Knowing that a time of reckoning had to come, yet not sure of just when, I bravely set off for the market, a local Wal-Mart grocery store that I often haunt in search of tasty tidbits.
Upon entering the store at first, all seemed normal. I selected a cart and began pushing it about dropping items in for purchase, as any other average American. It wasn't until I was at the opposite end of the store from the restrooms that the pain hit me. Oh, don't look at me like you don't know what I'm talking about. I'm referring to that 'Uh oh, got to go' pain that always seems to hit us at the wrong time. The thing is, this pain was different.
The habaneras in the chili from the night before were staging a revolt. In a mad rush for freedom they bullied their way through the small intestines, forcing their way into the large intestines, and before I could take one step in the direction of the restrooms, which would bring sweet relief, it happened. The peppers fired a warning shot.
There I stood, alone in the spice and baking aisle, suddenly enveloped in a noxious cloud, the likes of which had never before been recorded. I was afraid to move for fear that more of this vile odor might escape me. Slowly, oh so slowly, the pressure seemed to leave the
I went grocery shopping recently while not being altogether sure that course of action was a wise one. You see, the previous evening I had prepared and consumed a massive quantity of my patented 'You’re definitely going to poop yourself' chili. Tasty stuff, hot to the point of being painful, which comes with a written guarantee from me, that if you eat this potion the next day, both of your butt cheeks will fall off.
Surprisingly I had awakened that morning, and even after two cups of coffee nothing happened. Despite habanera peppers swimming their way through my intestinal tract, I appeared to be unable to create the usual morning symphony referred to by my next-door neighbors as thunder and lightning.
Knowing that a time of reckoning had to come, yet not sure of just when, I bravely set off for the market, a local Wal-Mart grocery store that I often haunt in search of tasty tidbits.
Upon entering the store at first, all seemed normal. I selected a cart and began pushing it about dropping items in for purchase, as any other average American. It wasn't until I was at the opposite end of the store from the restrooms that the pain hit me. Oh, don't look at me like you don't know what I'm talking about. I'm referring to that 'Uh oh, got to go' pain that always seems to hit us at the wrong time. The thing is, this pain was different.
The habaneras in the chili from the night before were staging a revolt. In a mad rush for freedom they bullied their way through the small intestines, forcing their way into the large intestines, and before I could take one step in the direction of the restrooms, which would bring sweet relief, it happened. The peppers fired a warning shot.
There I stood, alone in the spice and baking aisle, suddenly enveloped in a noxious cloud, the likes of which had never before been recorded. I was afraid to move for fear that more of this vile odor might escape me. Slowly, oh so slowly, the pressure seemed to leave the