GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #989: OPIOID-INDUCED CONSTIPATION

 What happens when you spend the day in the ER, getting morphine injections, and then you go home (which is relative in my case), and you sip on liquid vicodin for about 24 hours? When you ingest that much opioid (why did we stop saying opium?), you're going to be backed up. It's an unrelenting thing called Opioid-Induced Constipation, and now that I've been taking them for years I can say I'm pretty familiar with the phenomenon, such as it is. But once upon a time I was a complete stranger.

The reason I bring this up is, you cannot underestimate the relief of taking a shit after the opioid is gone. It's one of the most fabulous sensations in the world. After straining and pushing for two days, the dam broke at work this afternoon. I felt every turd joint, every shit wrinkle, every fecal pockmark rub rockily against my stretching anus, and it felt amazing. The old joke about feeling 10 pounds lighter? That's no exaggeration for me, because I really *am* 10 pounds lighter than I was on Monday.

But I wanted to tell you tonight about my first brush with OIC, which happened maybe 10 years ago? Possibly? Maybe a little later. At any rate, I was staying the night with my girlfriend at the time, and she was on methadone as she was a recovering junkie. Her method of taking it was dissolving the tablet in orange juice and drinking it that way.

We spent the night doing pretty much the only thing we did back then: getting drunk as fuck and, uh, well, fuck as drunk. We'd take periodic breaks, and during one of these I drank what I thought was my orange juice. When she came back from the bathroom, she asked, "Did you drink my orange juice?"

Considering what we'd been up to, I wasn't worried about catching anything from her OJ. I almost never get colds or the flu or anything, anyway. Then she reminded me of what was in her orange juice. I asked what would happen, and she shrugged and said, "Things could get interesting for you."

How bad could it be? We went at it one more time and then fell asleep. The next morning, as was customary, she woke up ready to go another round. She asked me to get behind her, but when I did, I nearly pitched forward onto her back. I braced myself by putting both hands on her ass and trying not to fall over. She asked what was wrong, and I said I didn't know. Only then did she remember about me drinking her methadone, and she explained what was happening.

I'm advised that I slept through the best part of that drug and woke up in time for the horror. Because I had to shit desperately, and I could not. I heaved and hoed and did a couple of body twists and some stretches. Tried to change my stance so it seemed like I was squatting more than usual. Nothing came out. I could feel it knocking at the back door, but it was too fucking big to make its escape. It was one of the most miserable things I'd gone through at the time, and now it's business as usual.

The unfortunate thing is, sometimes the shit HAS TO BE RETRIEVED. No amount of pushing is going to do it. I've heard horror stories of the spoon, but I have never done that. The next day at work, I managed to push it a little bit out of me, but it wouldn't come any further. I couldn't suck it back in, so I knew, horror of horrors, I had to get it out of me AT WORK. There was only one thing I could do: I wrapped my hand like a mummy's in toilet paper and reached up in there to pull my shit out.

Getting a grip on it was difficult. Slippery and somewhat mushy. But I sank my wrapped fingers in deeper and managed to get a handle on the thing. I pulled it the rest of the way out, and it felt like a hard sack of marbles in my wrapped hand. But it was out, and the rush of afterbirth came out with it.

I could not wash my hand enough. None of it got through the TP, but all the same, would you let something like that go? When I got out of the bathroom, everyone saw the haunted look in my eyes. They knew something horrible went down in that bathroom, and my supervisor let me go home early.

I've only ever had to reach back up there once before, and it was a lot messier that time. Thankfully I was home with rubber gloves. But I've learned that laxative is the best way to go. I have mineral oil that works slowly but efficiently. There's milk of magnesia, which works fast and brutal. And if you put them together you've got yourself a fine recipe for instant diarrhea.

But sometimes that doesn't work, and thanks to my hetero lifemate, Rob Tannahill, I now use Senokot. So if you find yourself suffering from OIC, that's what I would recommend. I took that last night, and after a terrible struggle I'm back in tip-top shape, ready to beat the shit out of the world.

Pretty gross, huh? It's been a while since I got gross here. Gotta remember I'm a horror author sometimes. Hell, I'm an erotica author, too. Maybe I'll get sexy tomorrow night. It *is* Saturday.

Pleasant dreams, fuckers.

Should I do commercials for Senokot? I'd do it for free product. Do I know anyone who works for them? Or maybe their social media team took the wrong turn at Albuquerque and is reading this. Have your people call my people (ie. person: me), and we'll talk.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #668: TALKING SHIT

 All right, we're going to talk shit tonight. Literally. I know that's not many people's thing. It's not my thing, either. You might want to skip this one.

It's my 292nd day without alcohol. For maybe the last 10 years or so while drinking heavily every day, I developed a problem. Every bowel movement was diarrhea. Violent and unrelenting diarrhea. Except when I was on painkillers. Nothing binds a shit together quite like opioids.

Then I went to detox, and since then my shits have been rock solid. Like taking an opioid shit without the benefit of actually being on opioids. Every shit has been a struggle. I used to flippantly refer to people "shitting a brick" before, and now I have an idea of what that is actually like. Some of these shits come out of me so hard and vicious that I'm surprised I don't have anal fissures. These things stretch me out to the absolute limit without tearing me.

I got sick of it, so I got a referral to a gastroenterologist. I've seen him before, actually. He's been at this so long he was my grandfather's gastroenterologist for a while. About a week or so back, his nurse advised me to take Miralax. It worked pretty well for a bit, but then it got me back to shitting ditch water.

I saw him today, and we're working on medications to get me at a happy medium. A mushy solid would be nice. Something I don't have to strain to release.

In the meantime, I am turning 45 in a few months. That means that my first colonoscopy is in my near future. In fact, I scheduled it today. The doctor is going to give it to me at both ends, actually. He's scoping my mouth and my ass on the same day.

It is my fervent hope that he doesn't go ass to mouth. And yes, I'm getting knocked out for this. No way they're doing that to me while I'm conscious.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #444: THE CCC

 So when I have the day off, I like to go read at forest preserves. It gets me out of the house, and if it's timed right, I don't have to run into too many people. There are times where I have the whole place to myself, and I like that best of all. But my favorite to go to is the Fullersburg Forest Preserve. In particular the Graue Mill end of it.

This place was built (if you can build a natural place, I guess) by the CCC, which was one of the best things FDR came up with. It served two great purposes. First, it preserved the natural beauty of this country as an extension of Theodore Roosevelt's creation of national parks. Without the CCC I'm sure there would be a strip mall where the Graue Mill stands. Hell, some people are trying to tear it down even now but for different reasons. And I hope they fucking fail.

The other great purpose was it created millions of jobs during the Great Depression. So when you wander down forest preserve paths or cross the bridges there and so on, the CCC built that for you.

The CCC was short lived, sadly. It was created in 1933 and was a casualty of World War II. The government needed the money to beat the shit out of the Axis, so they took it from the CCC. It's odd thinking these forest preserves are, in the big picture, kind of new.

Considering the amount of energy drinks and water I consume, it should come as no surprise that I've had to use the outhouses at these places. They're fucking horrible places, but that's the way it's supposed to be. I remember thinking, as I stood at the urinal, shocked at how overpowering the stink in there was, I realized that I was pissing on decades and decades worth of shit. Maybe some of it belonged to the CCC that built this Satan's black, hell-besmeared, farting hole.

I'm sure their shit is buried a lot lower and might even have fossilized by now. (It should be noted that I own a petrified dinosaur turd. Because of course *I* would.)

No wonder it stinks so bad in there.

Yeah, I know. You didn't expect a Warlock reference tonight. Neither did I.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #315: THE ART OF CURSING

 I don't know why I was thinking about this today, but for some reason it popped up in my head.

I was in junior high, what everyone calls middle school now. Maybe 6th or 7th grade, I don't remember. I just know it wasn't 8th grade. Anyway, I was in PE, and we were playing softball. In case you don't know my likes and dislikes, I dislike sports a great deal. If you're into it, good for you. It's just not for me.

As we played sportsball, I fucked up. Because, well, I didn't care. So fuck it. I don't remember what I said specifically, but I have a fairly good suspicion that I said, "Ah shoot."

I was in left field for a fairly good reason. No one really expected me to do anything because they understood, at least that much, that I didn't care. But there was a fellow student in center field who gave me shit. I remember very much what his name was, but I'm not going to mention it here. I'm fairly certain that he wouldn't want me to mention it here. Unless he's dead. I don't think he is, but at my age, it's possible. But he might have an important job, and his crime against me was nothing more than a mere inconvenience. So fuck it.

He said, "Bruni! What the fuck, man? Why would you say that? Say shit for fuck's sake!" And then he proceeded to give me an extended tutorial, in person, on how to effectively curse.

I didn't need it. I only said the safe version because I didn't need yet another detention. But what the hell? This guy didn't know me. He just knew what other people said about me. I'm very fuckin' good at cursing. He didn't know that. But he assumed.

So I had no choice but to fuck with him back. "Shhhhhhh-uh-iiiiiiiit?" I said.

"Say it with feeling, Bruni!"

"Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitttttttttttt?"

"You're hopeless."

That was it. I just find it funny that this guy assumed that stupid shit about me. I was a quiet kid, but I knew my way around curse words. It is kind of an art, actually. If you curse, you need to mean it or someone is going to think you're an idiot. I curse with great gusto in person. For a great example on how cursing can be an art, I suggest looking up Dr. Dirty songs.

I wonder where that guy is now, now that I have books like POOR BASTARDS AND RICH FUCKS and DONG OF FRANKENSTEIN under my belt. I kind of don't want to know. I fear that he might think that he taught me how to curse, which is simply not true. I have very few skills. Writing is one. Cursing is another. I've been successfully cursing since I was seven. I'm proud of my abilities because I find myself in an odd situation. I can say just about anything I want to, and people won't hate me. They won't even confront me. They'll say, "That's just Bruni being Bruni."

Good thing I don't want to hurt anyone with my cursing. If I did, I would probably be president of the US right now.

TOILET PAPER HORROR

A nice, filthy whiskey shit.

Such a relief to get it out.

Probably a 3-wiper, clean as a whistle.

Bunch up toilet paper.

Wipe—

Oh no.

Fuck.

My finger pushed through

and swiped my asshole

shit juice still on it.

Wipe it clean.

Scrub and scrape

Scrape and scrub

Sniff it.

You can hardly smell it.

But you know that after 30 minutes

The shit stink will be back.

Even if you put cologne on it.

HEY FUCKERS #25: THE SHIT BLUES

It's one of the most depressing things that can happen to you when you're in the bathroom. You're bloated almost to the point of pain, and you feel an overwhelming urge to shit. So you sit down and get ready for it to just slide out of you.

A timid fart is all you get. You can feel there's something more than gas in there, but it's just not moving. You give it a push, and it nears your asshole. But then it doesn't go further. Maybe it touches the rim, and if you could bend that way, you could probably see it through your stretched anus.

But it doesn't come out. There's no way it's coming out without getting some blood in your stool. It's just not ready to leave your body. There's nothing you can do but suck it back up and wait for later. You wipe, just to make sure, but you don't expect to actually see any shit on the toilet paper. Surprise! There's a thin brown stripe. So you wipe again and again and again, and it just doesn't stop. Jesus hell! You didn't even get to shit, and now you've got to put up with this?!

Finally it subsides, but now you're a bit raw and in a foul mood. You pull up your pants and wash your hands, still feeling bloated but now there's a touch of anger and sadness. There's nothing to do but wait until your log is fully incubated. Time to go back to work and wonder when the bastard will be ready.

THE WAR IN REAL LIFE

Hollywood never gets war right. I should know. Back in WWII, I served on a destroyer in the Pacific. I know how it was in real life.


Eh, their hearts are in the right place, I guess. They want to depict the glory and honor with beautiful people who never get too dirty, or too bloody.


But it’s all bullshit. Let me tell you how it really was.


Think about this: a bunch of guys on a ship at sea. No women. And no one wants the others to think he’s queer or something, not in those John Wayne days. But they’ve got a lot of spunk built up. How are they going to get rid of it? And not cumming, by the way, is off the table.


That’s right. A lot of midnight palm parties. Except the bunks were so close that there was the very real possibility of accidentally blowing your load on another man. Me? I was real courteous, like. Always shot off under my blanket. Sure, it led to crusty sheets, but fuck it.


You always wanted the top bunk. That way, if anyone’s getting jizzed on, it’s the fellas under you. That wasn’t a sure thing, though. Some guys were all distance. Vic the Vag could fire a cum bullet and nail a yawner right in the mouth at twenty feet.


I can’t count the times I caught another guy’s cock grease by way of happenstance, but I never got used to that.


You think Henry Fonda ever got squirted by dick jelly?


But never mind that. That’s not what I wanted to tell you about. The thing I really wanted to say was how I survived September 12, 1943. None of us expected to be attacked that day, let me tell you. Intel from the front told us the Japs weren’t anywhere near us. Most of us were watching a stag flick at the time. The fellas who had already seen it were drinking, smoking, or playing cards, maybe even all three.


Me? I was supposed to keep an eye out for the enemy, but I wasn’t too concerned due to the intel. In fact, I had to take a shit something fierce. Nobody’d spot me, so I just left my post.


Can you imagine Randolph Scott needing to shit so bad he had to abandon his duties?


In the latrine, there were no stalls, just a line of toilets where everyone can see everyone else’s business . . . if you cared to look, ya’ nancy. Flushers didn’t work too well, either, so the place never smelled fresh. At the front were sinks and at the back, shower nozzles.


This day I’m talking about, I went into the head and saw two other guys. Lt. Tim Jordan stood in the back, soaping up his scummy body. Somehow he always smelled like bacon and unwiped butt hole. He was handsome enough, I guess, but he had some kind of dick rot going on. I didn’t know who he’d gotten it from, but I prayed never to meet her.


The other guy was Pvt. Philip “Fill ‘Er Up” Peters. He sat on one of the toilets, face red, veins sticking out of his forehead. A low whine came from the back of his throat.


I ignored them both and tried to find a useable toilet. Three were clogged up, one of them containing a turd the size of a Yule log. Two others had been pissed on. I had no choice but to take the one next to Peters.


Before I sat down, I perused the reading material. A dog-eared copy of Ooh-La-La!, a pristine Saturday Evening Post, and a week-old newspaper. I took the Ooh-La-La! and dropped my pants, preparing for what would undoubtedly be a room-crushing dump.


The turd was halfway out my ass when it happened. Something thudded loudly against the destroyer, and we could feel the heavy vibrations through the floor and the toilet seats.


“What the fuck was that?” Jordan asked. He blindly reached for a towel to wipe soap out of his eyes.


I didn’t feel too good about this, so I tried to push the rest of my brown tail out. Before I could begin to strain, the sound came again, and this time the ship shuddered so hard it threw me and Peters off our porcelain thrones. I skidded against the linoleum so hard it burned my skin. When I stopped, I could feel something soft but firm resting on the backs of my legs.


My turd.


Do you think this kind of thing would have ever happened to Bob Mitchum?


“Jesus, Philly! Wipe your ass!”


I looked up to see Jordan had braced himself against the wall. Peters, on the other hand, crouched on all fours, his diarrhea-spattered ass in the air.


The destroyer shook again, and it startled me so much I pushed the rest of my shit out. It rolled toward a wall and squatted there like a disapproving neighbor.


“We gotta’ get outta’ here,” Jordan said. He toweled himself off and went in search of his clothes.


I tried to stand so I could clean myself up, but it happened again. This time, the ship shook so hard the floor tilted. All three of us slipped across the room and hit the wall in a pile.


“Fuck!” Jordan pushed at me. “Get up!”


Him being a superior officer and all, I tried. The destroyer rocked again, and we all slid across the latrine until we hit the opposite wall. This time, I could see Peters and his bare, beshitted ass coming at me. I tried to move out of the way, but there was no time. He slammed up against me, and a jet of diarrhea shot out and nailed me in the face. It got in my nose, my mouth, up under my eyelids. Fetid, rotten shit juice overpowered my senses, and I puked all over Peters.


“Holy Jesus!” Jordan cried. “What the fuck?!”


I could still taste and smell shit, so I retched again, only this time I did it while sliding across the floor a third time as the destroyer rocked again. I left a trail of vomit as I went.


Peters hit a toilet on the way by, but instead of giving him something to hold onto, it broke like the cheap shit it was. He skittered on the floor, clutching the toilet and a bowl full of clogged shit, which spilled out over the edges as it moved. When he hit the wall, the shitter broke open and spat more crap at us.


I dry retched, but Jordan puked out a very colorful lunch all over my head. Blinded by other peoples’ bodily fluids, I tried puking again. Nothing.


The floor tilted so far this time we didn’t slide, we fell. It was like dropping two stories. Something in my knees broke. Later, I was told my knee caps had shattered. At the time, the puke, shit, and now, blood, had all my attention.


At this angle, all the toilets gave up their contents, covering us in lumps of shit and soiled toilet paper. It slicked over us like a second skin. Like layers of cancer.


I don’t imagine Jimmy Stewart ever put up with this.


We didn’t have time to gather our wits. Another explosion, this one bad enough to make all the toilets explode, showering us with brown prizes and shards of porcelain. I don’t know how many ounces of shit and piss I swallowed, but I’m sure my packed mouth resembled those clogged toilets from earlier.


Once again, we flew across the latrine and smacked up against the opposite wall. Peters caught enough shrapnel in his right eye that he later lost it. Also, at some point, all my front teeth got busted out. Maybe I didn’t notice because broken teeth look a lot like shattered toilet pebbles. I don’t know.


Jordan grabbed a showerhead and held on for dear life. I would have done the same thing, but blood and shit got into my eyes, and I spent three seconds of freedom trying to clear my sight.


Another explosion. My world started to tilt again, and I jumped up, reaching desperately for a showerhead. I grabbed something, but it wasn’t strong enough to hold me. I fell and hit the other wall. The world spun like I’d just downed a fifth of whiskey in one sitting. I backhanded filth from my eyes, and then I saw what I’d grabbed. I couldn’t figure out what the cylindrical object in my palm was at first because of all the sores and rashes.


Then, I suddenly knew.


It was Jordan’s disease-ridden cock.


Think that ever happened to Humphrey Bogart?


I had enough time to look up and see Jordan hanging above us, a rivulet of blood splattering down, feet dangling loosely, before the destroyer rocked again.


I hit the wall with my head this time, real direct, like, and mercifully, I passed out. Pants around my ankles, covered in human effluvia, mouth ruined and skull cracked, I lost consciousness.


When I woke up a week later, I was stateside in a hospital, on the mend. Good news: my busted knees would keep me from the Fight, at least for a while. Thanks to that eye, Peters would be keeping me company.


Jordan? They couldn’t put his dick back on, not that he should have wanted that rotten and used up thing. After a month, they sent him back to the Front. He killed a lot of Japs, so many that they eventually gave him a Section Eight. I hear he committed suicide in ’47.


Peters died in ’83. Heart attack. I’m the last of ‘em, and I’m here to tell you, you won’t get the truth about war from James Cagney and his fellow actors.


Nope. War is hell, sure, but more so, it’s a dirty business. Hollywood will never get it right. Take it from me. I was there.

JOHN BARTH IS A BIG WHINER

[NOTE:  THIS WAS AN ENTRY INTO A QPBC FLASH FICTION CONTEST.  I WAS IN COLLEGE AT THE TIME, SO I WAS EXPOSED TO A BUNCH OF POST-MODERN BULLSHIT.  SOME OF YOU WILL GET THE JOKE, OTHERS WILL THINK I'M STUPID.  MAYBE BOTH.  BUT I GOT A CHUCKLE OUT OF IT.  SHIT, THIS INTRODUCTION IS LONGER THAN THE STORY.  I'LL SHUT UP NOW.]


The Quality Paperback Book Club says to write a story 55 words long.  Very difficult.  What should I do?  Stream of consciousness?  No.  I could go metafiction, but I don't want to be pretentious.  That's something John Barth would do, and he's a big whiner.  I'm too good for that.


Shit!  Piss!  Fuck!

SHIT ON TV by Dr. Jonah Chaos

Recently, the FCC reduced the Seven Words You Can't Say on Television to six.  You can now say "shit" on TV, and CHICAGO HOPE took advantage of this.

In Elmhurst, citizens are up in arms about this, going so far as to picket City Hall.  Mayor T--- M------- said at a press conference that he is indeed pissed off at the FCC, especially if it will win him votes in the upcoming election.  "What if children hear it on TV?" M-------- said.  "Fuck the FCC!  FCC stands for Fuckin' Cocks and Cunts!"

In fact, many children who overheard M--------'s speech have adopted his cry of, "Fuck the Fuckin' Cocks and Cunts!"  They shout it gleefully in the streets.

"Fuck those bastards!" said Thomas Finn, 8.  "How dare those cocksuckers expose us to the s-word!"

My question is, what's the problem?  There should be nation-wide celebrations.  One down, six to go.  As much as I despise the poison semen of Satan's crusty, wart-spotted, AIDS-infected cock (the mayor), I have no choice but to agree with him.  Fuck the FCC!  Not because they let "shit" slip by, but because they put so many regulations on TV in the first place.

Words are words.  Some may be powerful, some insulting, but is it wrong to say certain things just because they imply something dirty?  "Shit" describes something emitted from every human being.  It's perfectly normal to excrete a hunk of brown, stinking matter.  In fact, your bodies rely on the act of shitting.  Why, then, is the word "shit" considered immoral?

To "fuck" is for one being, be it male or female with a strap-on, to insert a cock-like object, be it dick or dildo, into the hole of another human being, male or female, cunt or asshole.  This act is also perfectly natural and quite pleasurable to boot.  In other words, not only do people do it, but people do it a lot.  Not only should it be allowed to say "fuck" on TV, it should also be allowed to fuck on TV, or at least have some sex scenes that show nudity besides some guy's wrinkled ass.

These are only two examples.  There are many more.  The question remains, then, why allow the existence of the FCC?  The argument that certain words are dirty does not hold.

The only possible answer is to lie to children, to maybe deter them from fucking by keeping them stupid.  Why keep them from fucking?  Teenage pregnancy, so-called decency, sexually transmitted diseases, and most importantly, fear.  God help them if these kids ever experience pleasure!

I implore you to stop lying to our future.  While you're at it, how about giving them some freedom, too?  Take age requirements off tobacco and alcohol.  It means nothing anyway, except to earn the city money when kids get fined for under-aged smoking or drinking.  To restrict something is to restrict thinking.  To restrict thinking is to restrict evolution.  To restrict evolution is to restrict intellectual growth.  Thus, to restrict kids from having a choice about anything is to reduce them to the level of morons.  Maybe if you start treating kids like intelligent human beings, with dignity, they might surprise you.

Think about it, if you're capable.