I locked the door and frantically unzipped my blue jeans. I flinched forward, trying my best not to soil my pants. I had made a drunken Taco Bell run at two in the morning the night before, so I had to move quickly. By the time my ass hit the toilet seat I was sweating bullets and trembling. What happened next can’t be described accurately through writing. But l’ll try my best. First, the sound of a champagne bottle being opened echoed throughout the bathroom. Next, the sound of a severe hail storm over Lake Erie filled the toilet bowl. Then, there was the squeak of the towel rack as I held on tight with all the strength I could muster. Finally, one final splash that would remind many of the sounds heard during a whale show at Seaworld. I reared my head back and took in a giant gasp of air, thanking God for getting that demon out of my gut. It took a few minutes to regain my strength. Meanwhile, I played “Fields of Gold” by Sting, and scrolled Twitter for a little bit. After trolling a few celebrities, I placed my phone on the shelf above the toilet and stood up to begin the long, exhausting task of wiping.
The second I stood up I immediately felt a sharp pain radiate through my lower back, into my anus, and down to my feet. My knees buckled and I face planted onto the floor. My back had gone out. I was now lying face down on the bathroom floor, with my pants around my ankles. I was in extreme pain and in a world of trouble. I realized I was going to need help. Unfortunately, I had locked the door and my phone was out of reach. My wife had taken the kids to the beach for the weekend, but had asked me to stay home stating, “nobody wants to see your pale ass on the beach. Gross.” I had reluctantly stayed home and now I was without any help in this situation. I tried rolling over, but the pain was excruciating. I screamed out in pain, passing gas with each scream. I spent the next few hours just trying to scoot my naked ass closer to the door. I was failing miserably and the pain was not getting any better. My mental state was wearing thin, as I had just heard “Fields of Gold” play for the hundredth time.
Later that evening, I had yet to move any closer to the door. My hip bones were in pain, as they had been pressed onto the tile floor for close to eight hours now. “Fields of Gold” was still on repeat and I was still letting out a tremendous amount of potent farts. I began to hallucinate from the methane trapped in the room and the lack of hydration. Then I heard the boiler kick on and water started to rush through the radiator. Unfortunately for me, the radiator was directly in front of my face. The crackle of the pipes temporarily drowned out Sting’s voice and the room started to warm. It was pleasant at first, but became harder to take as the heat continued to rise. The sweat began to drip from my brow and I had to lift my head up to keep it from burning against the radiator. This became difficult and my head kept dropping, burning my forehead over and over again. The heat was also searing my eyelashes and eyebrows. The smell of burnt hair and fart overwhelmed the room.
After passing out for a good twelve hours or so, I awoke to the line, “You’ll remember me when the west wind moves upon the fields of barley.” I realized quickly that my nightmare was not yet over. My eyes were extremely dry from the heat and were burning like the pits of Hell. I had spasms in my back, followed by spasms in my anus. I had not urinated in almost a day and was extremely dehydrated. Realizing that my family would not be home for another day, I began to cry. Unfortunately, my eyes were too dry and I couldn’t produce tears. I rested my head on the tile and stared into space. I tried to relax but the sight of pubic hairs all over the floor distracted my thoughts. I eventually started to go crazy and began to bang my head against the floor, trying my best to knock myself out. It worked and I passed out. While passed out, I had the strangest dream. I dreamt I was sitting in my living room watching television, when all of a sudden I noticed a small crack in the window. The crack was leaking water and it looked as though the entire window was about to burst open, spilling a flood of water into my house. I jumped off the couch and screamed for help. My friend, Philip, frantically entered the room. “What’s wrong,” he asked. I yelled, “I need a dingleberry! Hurry, I need it now!” Philip reached into the back of his pants and tugged around, pulling a piece of dingleberry from his trousers. I grabbed it without hesitation and placed it on the tiny crack. The water stopped leaking and my living room was saved from the flooding waters. What that dream meant, I may never know.
“In his arms she fell as her hair came down among the fields of gold,” were the first lyrics I heard when I finally woke up. I could also hear my family rustling around in the kitchen. I tried my best to yell for help and eventually my kids started knocking on the bathroom door. I told them I needed help and I could hear my wife say, “well, he’s just going to have to wait a goddamn minute.” Three hours later, the door knob was unlocked and my wife peeked in to find me on the floor. “Jesus Christ! What in the hell is in the toilet?” I realized that the toilet had never been flushed, so I could only imagine what it looked like after two days of sitting in stagnate water. “Can you please help me? My back went out,” I explained. She shut the door and told me to wait while she got the neighbor. Four hours later, my ninety-five year old neighbor, Bill, came into the bathroom with the fear of God in his eyes. I don’t think he knew what was happening to him. He placed his oxygen tank down on the floor and handed my wife his lit cigarette. He gently tried to lift me up, but he was of little help and I screamed out in pain. My wife left the room to call the squad. Meanwhile, Bill decided to go ahead and pee before he headed home. He stood over top my lifeless body and urinated into my toilet. “Swollen prostate,” he said, as he peed all over my floor. He couldn’t see the toilet bowl and urine splattered all over my feet. He sputtered out of the bathroom, lighting a cigarette before he left.
Six hours later, the squad finally arrived. I could overhear the two medics arguing about who should go in first. Sting was still singing in the background and I couldn’t help but to be impressed with the amount of battery life my phone had kept through this entire crisis. One of the medics came in and rolled me onto a gurney. They placed no bandages on my head, did not clean the sweat off of my body, and did not pull my pants up. Instead, they slowly rolled me through my house for all of my family to see. My horrible wife had spitefully not cancelled her weekly book club, so about a dozen middle-aged women got a good look at my genitalia. I would have cried if I could have produced tears. Instead, I just stared at the ceiling and prayed to God to make this all go away. As the medics placed me in the ambulance, I could hear neighbors talk about me and I even heard one woman screaming in fear. As the ambulance pulled away, the one medic took a picture of me and posted it on Instagram. That picture, would eventually go on to be the most viewed picture ever posted on the social media outlet. The driver turned up the radio and “Fields of Gold” started blaring over the loud speakers. That’s when I passed out again.