What Did You Expect?

Any time you eat out there's a finite possibility of ending up with a case of the shits - it's just not reasonable to expect that everyone who works in a restaurant washes their hands after wiping their arse, or that the ingredients didn't have green fur wiped off them when they were pulled out of the back of the refrigerator. We routinely take this chance, often putting our colons in the hands of the kind of people we'd cross the street to avoid if we actually met them, in return for the convenience of someone else making us food.

There are times, however, when the possibility of diarrhea becomes more of a probability. And yesterday, when I ordered the seafood chili it's fair to say that I accepted the near-certainty that it would exit me with extreme prejudice this morning.

And I was not disappointed. To be fair, it looked like diarrhea before I even began eating it - brown liquid with seafoody things floating in it. My poor digestive tract didn't stand a chance; I'm not sure it even made a dent in the chili. I could practically have counted out the shrimp one by one, had I been so inclined. It's not as though I didn't see it coming...