It Was Bound To Happen...

WARNING: Anyone bothered by a frank discussion of bodily functions should NOT read any further...

It was a day that started out like all the others before it...Awake at 0500, hit the gym for some "geezer PT" (treadmill set at 4 mph for 30 minutes), shower & shave, toss on the uniform and sidearm, and head for breakfast (after a thoroughly enjoyable phone call to my wife). Upon reaching the DFAC this morning, I made a fateful decision to change my routine, and then everything went horribly wrong...
Up until today, I had escaped the fate that had befallen most of my comrades in arms, which is known locally as "Saddam's Revenge". (I doubt that Moctezuma's heirs will be suing for copyright infringement.) In fact, I was feeling pretty superior to everyone else, not to mention a lot more comfortable during the workday. While here at the FOB, on a normal day we just wear ACUs and carry a pistol, but before arriving here we often were burdened with body armor, helmet, and both a rifle and pistol, which combined to slow preparation for pooping by up to five vital minutes, which if you happen to have the trots can seem like an eternity.

Anyway, while on my way through the food line I felt kind of dehydrated from my rigorous (ha!) workout. My usual routine is to grab a bottle of water or Gatorade from the cooler by our usual table, but I was so parched that I instead filled up a glass from the water dispenser, and chugged it. It was cold and refreshing, so I had another...and then I realized that I had just violated Rule #1 of Surviving Your Iraq Tour, which is: "Never Drink Anything That Isn't Bottled or Canned!" Well, it was too late to undo that move, so I ate my breakfast and hoped for the best.

Two hours later, I broke my age group record for the 50 Meter Porta-Pottie Dash (I estimate that it was 5.2 seconds...though it was a "wind-aided" time, if you get my drift.) and even so, just barely avoided turning my green and tan uniform into a brown camouflage pattern. I was very thankful to have efficiently dropped trou, and also glad that I hadn't dropped my pistol into the holding tank while rushing to disrobe. Fifteen minutes later, I was reminded of what Winston Churchill said about the Battle of Britain: "This is not the end, nor the beginning of the end, but rather the end of the beginning!" As I made my way back to the office, I passed a small group of Iraqi workers who eyed me with either sympathy or amusement, making clucking noises and shaking their heads.
Ten minutes later, I shot out the door and resumed my position of Porta-Pottie defilade. In a bit of ironic timing, the outdoor loudspeakers blared, "Attention in the FOB! There will be a controlled detonation in two minutes!" At that very moment, I unleashed my own uncontrolled detonation, which was very possibly both louder and more prolonged than the announced one. Some wiseass walking by my refuge yelled, "Hey, I thought "Chemical Ali" was in prison, but he's here on our FOB!" Very funny, jerk....

Now this being my first combat zone deployment, I learned that the nature and quality of our bowel movements are an acceptable topic of conversation, same as discussing who's left on "American Idol" or the sports scores. I've been a bit more reserved than some of my fellow agents to share detailed after-action reviews, but today I threw caution to the winds and explained my dilemma, in case I had to disappear from unit meetings or suddenly drop the phone in the middle of a call and schlepp outside with a grimace on my normally happy face.

I skipped dinner in favor of the old one-two punch for the two-step: Pepto Bismol and Immodium. Three hours later, I'm sadder, wiser, and about 5 lbs lighter...and I'll never make that mistake again...at least until the next time I'm due to be checked for staying within the Army weight standard! Now if you all will excuse me, I need to head outside for a bit...