Thursday, August 20, 2009

Got the Mr Whiffys

No, that's not a clever p0rn title that is a lose reference to an existing product or entertainment release (tee hee). That's my short hand for I am a tad gassy.

As regular visitors to my patch of blogspot paradise know, I suffer from IBS - Irritable Bowel Syndrome. Which is a kind of lose catch-all applied to people who crap poorly and suffer pain from gurglings and spasming of the loopy bits that always seem to be so graphically described as spilling to the ground in fantasy novels.

There are two main types of IBS victims - the squirters and the blockies. I am a blocky - in that my pain is generally constipation linked.

I take IBS support pills (purchased from a weird mini-fridge at the local chemist that has a glass door - like it's from Wonder Woman's bar), fibre supplements, and eat fibrous cereals (or porridge). It helps a bit.

But on occasion, in addition to mild to severe stomach cramping, I get crippling pain attacks that can last up to a minute. Today I have experienced three such attacks. I think it's best described as if Mola Ram missed on the heart strike and stuck his claw in your abdomen instead, spending a good while trying to pull his hand out because it got snagged on your colon.

It is breathtaking, almost literally, as you can struggle to breathe when you go through it.

If you're lucky, after that, you can pass wind and relieve some of the pain.

Lucky for you ... unlucky for the world. Because that pain wind is some of the foulest horror that can creep from the bowels ... of the damned. It's seriously eye-watering stuff. So much so that when theWife passed through a cloud I prepared earlier she actually closed her eyes to prevent tearing up.

So, here I am, high on painkillers, farting it out in tiny puffs of hell wind. And the room I am exiled to, the delish end room with its broadband computer and DVD set up Teev, heater, and lovely bookshelf to store my footskin on, is beset by the fetid foulness that is my IBS farting fury.

Geez, that sounds like a Golden era Marvel WW2 Comic series.

Anyway, theWife, bless her, came into say goodnight. As she did so, she very politely, and kindly, offered me 'a courtesy spray' of some air freshener to lessen the impact of my windy tum.

Isn't that nice? And to her credit she didn't apply wasp nest tactics where after you hose down a hive with with insect killer chemicals you run full pelt for door and slam it shut behind you.

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