Before I had to have this done, the night before, I was given a little kit to take home with me. Apparently, the dye didn’t work too well if you were full of crap, so I had a little metallic envelope filled with this powder that was an industrial-strength laxative. I was directed to go straight home, mix the powder with some drink, chug it, then, for the rest of the night, be within easy sprinting distance of a bathroom.

So I took the drink and waited…and waited….and waited. Nothing was happening. This must be not too uncommon, because also with my little kit were two tiny tablets. If the powder didn’t start making you crap uncontrollably within 2 hours, I was to take one of the pills. If another hour passed and still nothing was happening, I was to take the other pill, and that would, of course, work.

It didn’t. I’d eaten well that day, so it wasn’t a case of, there was nothing there. I remember telling my BF to sleep on the couch that night, because I was seriously worried that the laxatives would kick in while I was sleeping, and I wanted to spare him from the fecal explosion.

I woke up early the next day, and wouldn’t you know, still nothing? Usually, in the morning, the first cigarette of the day got things moving nicely. Unfortunately, that was one of the banned things for that morning (no eating, no drinking if at all possible, or only water if you just had to, and no smoking).

A friend took me to radiology, where I tell them the stuff didn’t work, so don’t yell at me if you can’t see anything. I get dressed in a hospital gown and lie down on the table. They put a heparin lock in a vein of my arm, and then go off to get the dye.

No joke, they showed up with a syringe about the size and shape of a Pringles can. My jaw dropped and I said, “You’re not injecting all of that into me, right?” I started to be relieved when they said “No,” and really freaked when they said, “We’ll be injecting three of these into you,”

They slowly injected the first syringe into my vein. I don’t know how it did this, but it literally went straight into my bladder. I went from empty bladder to “must pee NOW” in the ten seconds it took for them to inject this. I asked to go to the bathroom, and they said, no, as they were beginning to shoot images. Then it was time for the second syringe of dye. After this one, I had to puke. Bad. I could tell this wasn’t just nausea that would go away, it would only be relieved by vomiting. I asked again if I could go to the bathroom, and again, they said no, still shooting.

I guess I should have expected where the third dye dose would go, but I didn’t. All of a sudden, I had to take a dump worse than I’d ever had to before in my life. I could also feel that the laxatives had decided to do their job at the exact same moment. I was shaking so hard, and crying (closed mouthed to stop immanent pukage). I literally felt like I was going to explode. I had to stay like that for another few minutes while they finished up. don’t know how I managed to not disgrace myself there. As soon as they said to get up, I was in the bathroom. I don’t remember covering the space between the room and the bathroom, I was just there. As I was slamming my butt into position, I grabbed the litle wastebasket that was in the corner, and then, for five minutes, pissed, crapped and puked, all at the same time.

After I was sure I was empty (and probably ten pounds lighter), I put my clothes on and crawled out to the waiting room. My friend, alarmed at how bad I looked, said that I could stay with him and his roommate until mty boyfriend got off work. Sure, I said. I was sure I was done. I mean, I couldn’t have anything else left in me, right?

My friend and his roommate had to go to another town about 50 miles away for something, so I went with them. Big mistake. Halfway there, I started puking, and I had to heave into an old Wal-Mart bag that I found on the floor, and they were frantically trying to find a gas station, as we were literally in the middle of nowhere. A Texaco came up over a hill, and we went straight there. Thank God it was not one of those ones they lock and you have to get the key from the attendant, or I’d have ruined my clothes.

After I get done hosing the dye out of my behind, I reached behind me to flush the toilet and….nothing happened. Nothing at all. I won’t go into detail, but I’d pretty much doubled the volume of fluid that had been in the bowl before I sat down, and it was really, really bad, not to mention slightly radioactive. I kept trying to flush, but nothing happened. I hate it when someone goes to a public bathroom and leaves their wastes behind without flushing, but I had no choice.

When I got out of the bathroom, I went over to tell the attendant the bathroom needed help, big time. He was busy flirting with two girls and he didn’t seem to appreciate the gravity of the situation. I mean, I just left a BIOHAZARD in the bathroom, and he was looking at me like I was a prima donna about the whole thing. We just left. I hope he got devoured by the radioactive poop Godzilla that likely emerged.

The worst part was later that day, when I called my mom to tell her what was up. If I could have strangled her through the phone I would have, as she told me, “Yeah, I had the same problem when I had an angiogram done. I had this delayed reaction to the laxatives, and I got really sick from the dye.” Nice of her to tell me this AFTER my tests, instead of before.

And then it turned out the whole medical problem was caused by a withdrawal off one of my medications, and the problem was solved by a month’s worth of the Pill. I never needed the pyleogram (or the camera up the bladder I got a few days later when the pyleogram came up negative), dye or laxatives in the first place, and it took something like 6 different doctors before one of them figured this out.

I got stuck with no TP while sitting in a bathroom at a public library. I happened to have been wearing shorts at the time, so I wasn’t about to take the risk that I’d be dropping crap as I walked out.

Luckily, the bathroom was completely empty. So, I flush and shuffle to the next stall hoping no one comes in at that moment and sees a nude 12-year-old boy in desperate need of TP. Guess what?

Some idiot locked the stall and left it that way. I shuffle over to the handicapped stall, find no TP in there either (I pity any handicapped dudes in that situation) and as I’m not about to slide under the stall door and get all manner of crap (not literally, but quite possibly) on me, I decide to be more daring.

Lucky for me, there’s a city newspaper published by a quasi-governmental organization that is kept on a rack just outside the door to the bathroom. I was forced to open the door, hiding all but my head behind the door before managing to snatch one and saving myself from the ignominy of crap-filled shorts while walking home from the library.

women use TP double what men do, because they have no choice……
and if your so bothered bout women using TP more, then never get a girlfriend/fiancee/wife. just stay single and alone: problem solved