Morning started off with much promise: the prospect of food, sunshine and company seemed a proper panacea. A friend and I went to a local restaurant called Zazie, where I began the assault on my hangover. Some hair-of-the-dog proved a powerful ally in the war against my adversary, and by the time reinforcements had arrived - in the shape of poached eggs, potatoes and french toast - my foe seemed to be face-to-face with utter defeat.
Not wanting to go down without a fight, the guerrilla militia leading the insurrection inside my stomach set off a dirty-bomb, which I was thankfully able to disarm inside the bathroom without any casualties - though the blast was heard for miles.
Not knowing the war was far from over, we left the restaurant and headed to Dolores Park, stuffed with a false sense of security, and potatoes. We arrived at the park and set up an outpost. The sun smiled on us as it sat perched in a sky of the clearest blue, and we indulged in some much needed relaxation. It wasn't long before I received communication along the vagus nerve that riots had broken out deep in the labyrinthian coils of my intestines, where refugees were living in shanty-towns in the most abject squalor. When I felt an explosion and the resultant tremor menacingly spreading across my abdomen, I knew shit had hit the fan. "Wait here," I yelled out to my comrade, "they're launching a surprise biological attack!"
Quickly, I ran toward the porta-potties, with hot darkly colored smoke billowing from my anus. I felt the urgency of the refugees as they scrambled to evacuate, pressing hard against the walls of the exit tunnel. The noxious gases ushering death to my insides continued to expand, bloating my stomach to obscene proportions as I ran seeking shelter inside the blue plastic sanctuary of the porta-potty. As I ran through what felt like a field of land-mines, my ears ringing from the incessant explosions, I saw lines of people waiting for entry into the potties.
I ran through the masses, careful to avoid pushing and trampling countless women and small children in my mad dash for safety. "Everyone, get down, it's gonna blow!" I yelled out. I saw scared faces, wide-eyed and slack-jawed as they tried feebly to place the gas-masks over their heads. High pitched squeals of missile fire and the low guttural groan of escape-sirens emanated from my anus causing alarm and pandemonium.
When I arrived at the front of the line - with people scrambling to get out of my way - I found all doors closed and occupied. I threw myself against the doors, howling and pounding with an implacable exigency, and I tried to force entry into the stall. The screams and horror of the current occupant were nothing compared to my fear of public detontation of a biological weapon; fears of a blast-crater a mile wide; methane gas, putrid and toxic, swirling around the nostrils of innocent and defenseless infants and their elderly caretakers; shards of fecal shrapnel propelled into the air at ludicrous speed; pandemics of pink-eye: total mud-butt mayhem.
And then, in an instant, the walls gave. The explosion forced a deluge of debris through the breached and weakened sphincter. The smell of death and decay burned my eyes, and the escaping matter, hot like magma, fused my pants to my leg as the corrosive stuff laid waste to my skin. Aghast, I watched as an entire piece of chocolately french toast fell out of my pant-leg. A creature more pathetic and more foul had never before been seen by the eyes of man. More dejected even than an eyeless Oedipus, more soiled than Al Roker at the Whitehouse.
Miraculously, after the explosion, the area around me cleared out significantly - it was as though I had entered a ghost town - and it was then that I was able to enter the porta-potty where I earned the rank of commando.
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