Explosive Diarrhea Quotes

One minute you think you’ve got the world by the balls, the next minute you don’t know where the fuck the world’s balls are.” “Sure I do,” I say irritably. “Right next to the world’s big fat hairy asshole, upon which I seem to be stuck in superglue lately, waiting for it to have its next case of explosive diarrhea.

Being human?” She smirks. “Be wary of a man who you don’t want bringing you a cool towel when you’re about to pass out from explosive diarrhea.

My shrink suggested that if I was going to continue traveling so much that I could look into getting a service animal expressly trained to provide emotional support to people with anxiety disorders. I considered getting Hunter S. Thomcat trained, but then I remembered that he gets spontaneous nervous diarrhea every time he's in a moving car, and I'd imagine that holding a cat who seems to have explosive plane dysentery wouldn't necessarily *help* my anxiety as give me something new (and horribly unsanitary) to be anxious about. I called around to different service-animal specialists and spoke to a woman who told me it's better to get an animal who has already been trained and has the right temperament. She also told me cats aren’t preferred emotional-support animals for anxiety disorder, but my cats hate dogs so I figured I was fucked, but then she told me that the Americans with Disabilities Act was recently interpreted as allowing “people with anxiety disorders to travel with an emotional-support pony on airlines.” So basically I could bring a goddamn pony on board with me. I’m pretty sure a pony wouldn’t fit under my seat or in my lap, but I rather liked the idea of a small medicinal horse standing in the aisle beside me while I braided his mane. Plus, Pony Danza would make a great pack animal and instead of bringing suitcases I could just put my extra clothes on him and that way I wouldn’t have to pay to check a bag. Plus, the pony wouldn’t get cold because it would be wearing my pajamas.

striding toward the store, I started to get all of those little nervous feelings: sweaty palms, churning butterfly stomach and the bloat of what felt like explosive diarrhea swelling just below that. Panic rolled over me in waves. But when I looked around, no one in the lot was paying any attention to me, even with my eyes probably shifting around like crazy. No one cared.

I can tell from the crack of a rifle shot the type of weapon fired and what direction the bullet is traveling. I can listen to a mortar pop and know its size, how far away it is. I know instinctively when I should prep a treeline with artillery before I move into it. I know which draws and fields should be crossed on line, which should be assaulted, and which are safe to cross in column. I know where to place my men when we stop and form a perimeter. I can shoot a rifle and throw a grenade and direct air and artillery onto any target, under any circumstances. I can dress any type of wound, I have dressed all types of wounds, watered protruding intestines with my canteen to keep them from cracking under sunbake, patched sucking chests with plastic, tied off stumps with field-expedient tourniquets. I can call in medevac helicopters, talk them, cajole them, dare them into any zone. I do these things, experience these things, repeatedly, daily. Their terrors and miseries are so compelling, and yet so regular, that I have ascended to a high emotion that is nonetheless a crusted numbness. I am an automaton, bent on survival, agent and prisoner of my misery. How terribly exciting. And how, to what purpose, will these skills serve me when this madness ends? What lies on the other side of all this? It frightens me. I haven’t thought about it. I haven’t prepared for it. I am so good, so ready for these things that were my birthright. I do not enjoy them. I know they have warped me. But it will be so hard to deal with a life empty of them. And there are the daily sufferings. You ghosts have known them, but who else? I can sleep in the rain, wrapped inside my poncho, listening to the drops beat on the rubber like small explosions, then feeling the water pour in rivulets inside my poncho, soaking me as I lie in the mud. I can live in the dirt, sit and lie and sleep in the dirt, it is my chair and my bed, my floor and my walls, this clay. And like all of you, I have endured diarrhea as only an animal should endure it, squatting a yard off a trail and relieving myself unceremoniously, naturally, animally. Deprivations of food. Festering, open sores. Worms. Heat. Aching crotch that nags for fulfillment, any emptying hole that will relieve it. Who appreciates my sufferings? Who do I suffer for?

Cola and pizza was my first daytime meal after a week of extreme night shifts, followed by explosive diarrhea!

Too bad. So sad. How’s the explosive diarrhea?” I asked, deciding I wanted to be a bitch myself.

In the few weeks we've been in residence, Schatzi has kicked dirt in the eye of a Chihuahua, resulting in a squealing of eardrum-perforating shrillness. She nipped the fingers of a very nice young woman walking her terrier mix when she tried to pet her. She growled at a Yorkie so menacingly the dog had immediate violently explosive diarrhea. All over my leg. It was like some invisible hand just squeezed her in the middle and hot liquid poop shot out of her with such velocity that despite being only like eight inches tall, she hit me from ankle to over the knee. I'm still grateful she wasn't a bigger dog. Schatzi was never mean to other dogs, or owners for that matter, when we were in the West Loop. She had her neighborhood pals, Otto the black Lab, who always tried to give her gifts of mangy tennis balls, Lucy, the sweet old arthritic collie who would nuzzle Schatzi like a doting grandmother, and her best buddy, Klaus, a giant schnauzer, the perfect replica of Schatzi herself, just supersized. They would romp around and then put their square bearded heads together and have what appeared to be very serious conversations about things. Jimmy, Klaus's dad, would always lean over and ask, "Do you think they're planning to invade Poland?" which never failed to make me laugh.

Every multicellular organism begins as one cell, which contains all of the intricate instructions to synthesize, organize, and regulate not only this cell but the development and maintenance of all cells that will inevitably comprise the organism. All of these instructions are encoded in the first cell's DNA. This underscores the complexity of the genome and how each cell's expression must be controlled in specific ways depending on its function. The cells hailing from each tissue in the human body (e.g., muscle, lung, heart, liver) harbor a unique epigen­etic signature, which enables the maintenance of tissue-specific func­tions through the control of gene regulation, as just discussed. "Our knowledge of the total number of unique cells, or cell types, is still growing. Previous estimates put the number of unique cell types in the human body at ~300, but new estimates from the Human Cell Atlas have shown that we may have thousands of cell types and subtypes, each harboring a unique function for a specific physiological state or response to stimuli. But even cells of the same cell type will not be identical. A cell's 'presentation' of molecules on their surface can radi­cally change depending on internal variables such as genetic mutations or altered states of their epigenome, transcriptome, and proteome, as well as external stimuli including drugs and interactions with other cells. This novel presentation is most pronounced with a neoantigen, when a cancer cell creates an entirely new molecule on the surface of a cell. Given its unique presentation, which wouldn't be found in nor­mal cells, this offers a unique target for safer cancer therapies. "The human body has about 30 trillion human cells plus another 30-40 trillion bacterial cells, for a total of about 70 trillion cells. If your body were a democracy, the human cells would often be the minority or equal party. You (as a human) would never win an election. Your loss of control would likely result in you rolling around in the soil or lying in a bathtub full of yogurt, which I do sometimes on Sundays. Regard­less of how you spend your Sundays, there are a lot of microbes in, on, and around your body. There are in fact so many microbes that they compose the bulk of the cells on Earth. This is a humbling and exciting statistic, and one which is vividly apparent for anyone who has ever had explosive diarrhea.

Be wary of a man who you don’t want bringing you a cool towel when you’re about to pass out from explosive diarrhea.

Stop the illegal drug epidemic by adding crap to drugs so that people won't think that they're cool anymore. Like, cut heroin with powdered milk and that way people who are lactose intolerant will think that heroin gives them explosive diarrhea. Also, maybe we run a series of anti-drug commercials of me shitting myself. Because you know what doesn't seem cool? A middle aged woman shitting herself.

be gone. Single use. Do not use Doctor Béchamp’s Cleanse All Disinfectant and Floor Cleaner with alcohol or healing potions. Do not operate heavy machinery after use. Or heavy-bladed weaponry. Do not use on summoned creatures, imps, devils, demons, extra-planar entities, celestials, fiends, familiars, or Darby O’Gillis. In rare cases, side effects may occur, including but not limited to: headaches, body aches, imaginary aches, unreal aches, obsessive truth telling, explosive diarrhea, loss of the ability to see the color puce, hair loss, hair growth, incorporeality, aura discharge, and mild stomach upset. In some rare cases damnation and eternal suffering may occur. Please discuss with your doctor, sage, witch, witchdoctor, haruspex, or personal hag before use. Use at your own risk.

When you two get the java jitters so bad that you can’t make it to the restroom fast enough for the diarrhea explosion, don’t blame me.