My life partner, Pam, said the saltwater tasted like "chicken broth". Telling myself this helped me get it down the first fateful time. And thank god I did, because if I hadn't been able to do this, one of the most amazingly slapstick moments of my life would never have gone down.
There we were, TRYING to have a conversation at the kitchen table after our salt water "flush" (APPROPRIATE). But literally every four minutes, one of us would have to get up and Flo Jo it to the john.
It's a no-nonsense kind of diarrhea. The kind that won't take no for an answer. I love the feeling of getting it out, but there's no bargaining with it. What it says, goes. GOES.
Pam was in the shower, and I was walking towards the bathroom wearing a giant t-shirt with no pants, of course. Or underwear. On the way there, let's say I took a gamble and lost. A big gamble. I sprayed all over the light gray carpet without even fully realizing what was happening. I looked down and screamed. What happened next could not be imagined by even the most seasoned sitcom writer.
The fucking smoke alarm went off.
It had a low battery and chose that EXACT SECOND to start beeping bloody murder, loud enough for the whole apartment complex to hear. Pam thought the house was on fire, but came out only to find me, standing on a chair trying to pull out the battery, all the toxins and shame of my life still running down my leg.
Lesson learned: there is no such thing as a fart on the Master Cleanse.
I could write down the boring details of the rest of the day, but why bother? I mean, I shit the floor and then the smoke detector went off. Nothing else matters or ever will matter more than that.