I love spicy food. I can’t take too much of it, because it kills my stomach, but I love to eat it. One type of particularly spicy food I had not tried, at least until a couple of weeks ago, was Indian cuisine.

So, since I had a chance to spend some time with a co-worker who was indian, and knew some nice restaurants where we were staying, I let him order for me. I had Tandoori chicken with rice and some kind of goats-milk yogurt drink.

Man, I LOVED this stuff. I had my friend order something relatively mild, so it wouldn’t kill me but it was GOOD! I liked it a lot- the chicken, especially, was great. Even the rice had a lot of flavor, something you don’t usually get in an American restaurant.

I decided, I’m going to eat a LOT more of this stuff, it was great!

Then cam the 6:05. You know, that first morning crap, the one that you hit right after waking, where you can sit, crap, piss, and read the morning paper just before the shower. I settled in to read the Click and Clack article about America’s ten ugliest cars, and then the first wave hit.

oh. my. god.

my. ass. is. on. fire.

I never felt anything like this- it wass like being sodomized by a red hot poker while flaming maggots crawled out of your ass- yes, I could physically feel each grain of semidigested rice as it exited, and it felt, well,it felt bad. At about the same time I began to sweat, and my sweat smelled like a polecat in heat. I opened the window, despite the cold, and gasped for breath, and then the aroma hit me.

I have no idea what it was that was coming out of my ass, but it sure wasn’t chicken and rice. Then, each time I thought i was done, and moved on, I ended up sitting back down again, and by the time I got through with my shower, I had been back out of the shower and on the throne several more times. By the time I was through I literally had nothing in me, i had shat every bite I had eaten the previous night, and even (by the smell) some things I hadn’t eaten in years. Hey! Where’d that White Castle come from?

Before I got to work I’d been on the john again several times at rest stops, doing the anal equivalent of dry heaves, there was just nothing else. Then, the farting started, and it was worse than the smell of burning brakes and armadillo guts. I thought they were going to chase me out of the office, and finally, I left early, stopping at a Walgreens for a big container of Tucks.

No more indian food for me.