My wife and I have a favorite pizza place. We used to go all the time, before kids. We became pretty friendly with the help. One Sunday afternoon, we could hear them in the back, talking loudly. One of the girls who made pizza for us apparently called in sick.
“Where is she?” one of the guys asked.
“Emergency room,” our favorite dude said.
“I don’t know. She started feeling really crappy and was all bent over in pain. She said she thought it was her appendix. I said it wasn’t her appendix, and told her to hurry up, we have to go to work. But she didn’t. She said she had to go to the hospital.”
“She drove herself to the hospital?”
The dude laughed. “I told her, hey, you had too much pizza, too many Skittles and you drank too many beers. You need to go take a shit. So when I left she was still in the bathroom.”
“Was that her?”
“Yup,” the dude says. “It was her appendix.”
Now, my wife and I have a favorite exchange when one of us doesn’t feel well: “Hey, you had too much pizza, too many Skittles, you drank too many beers, and you need to take a shit.”
It’s usually not the case. But so far, no appendix problems.
Ye True-ish Tayle of Ye Scandalous and Horney Behaviours: The Pilgrim's Diary, November 27, 1621 An Unpleasante Movement of the Bowells
An unfortunate event stemming from the gluttonous meal of the day before. Having eaten hence as if loading ye Blunder-buss, mine bowels were quite disturbed.
As t’is ungentle to speak of one’s private habits and nature’s demands, I shall not speak of it. Only to say at first setting upon yon Privy Seate, thought I might readeth the Good Book and relax. Tis about the only Spotte in this Blessed Land whereupon I myght seek and fynd a bit of Solitude away from the demands of the Worlde, and in particular, those of mine Wyfe.
So I sat on the darke and peaceful Privy Holle, scratching at mine Bollocks. But I revealeth too much. Courtesy doth not alloweth me to proceed further with mine description.
Only to say that then, after much waiting without any fruit, mine bowells hadde proved relucktant indeed. Stopped up as if ye oaken plugge had been hammered up there with a ramrod from a ship’s cannon, and lodged tyght. After a long siege, some progress, but twas halting and painfull. Like I had swallowed an anchor chayne from the largest shippe in the King’s Navy, then pulled it out through mine tender Bung-Hole, fynally attached to ye Eight-Poundes Sledge-Hammer. I cried out to Providence for reliefe.
But mine gentility alloweth me not to describe what happened nexte. Then, the blockade dislodged. Mine bowells did fairly gush forthe extremely cooperative, ever too much so, with a great splattering Noyse. A Stinke was raised in the Privy and I would dare say well outside of it anywhere down-winde, for a distance several furlongs hither. But as a gentleman, I must keep mine mouth closed tyght as ye Honorable Governor Bradford’s arse. (No, better to say tyght as his purse, as Ye Governor hast also hadde to entertain ye Lord Daws on occasion, like the rest of us lot, if ye getteth mine drift.)
Ye Bowells’ Movements being none of anyone’s business, I’ll speake no more of it.
Except gazing down into the Privy Hole at mine handiwork, I was reminded I had ere consumed copious amounts of maize. And the fire of ye burning hot spyces in ye Chilly t’wasn’t snuffed by its trip through mine Bowells, oh no twas not. Nothing a few hours sitting bare-arsed in yon icy river could not heal, though.
Mine own mannerly discretion alloweth no more talk of this deeply pryvate subjecte.