Thoughts On My Stomach

The Problem:

I’ve got a belly covered with nerves: raw, mean ones that tighten around my innards like a piano-wire ligature.

The smallest things - mere dietary minutiae that would normally pass through the body’s defenses – can REALLY unhinge my gastric balance. Now, I’ve already considered a half-dozen or so possible culprits – from lactose, to Celiac’s, to caffeine sensitivity – but not a single one of these diagnoses has given me the closure that my poor, long-sufferin’ belly-pouch DEMANDS! Call it a process of constant disappointment: jettison the lactose, shun that pollutin’ gluten, refrain from coffee and soda-pop. And still…STILL…my tummy is a biological combat zone. I suppose I’m luckier than some, considering the abundance of other shameful disorders of the viscera. For starters, there’s the prolapsed anus -known in some bawdy circles as “The Pink Sock” or “Rocky Mountain Bubblegum Tail”. Equally unnerving is the leper’s touch of fecal incontinence.

My Theory:

You see, years of living and dining in the American Southeast can fortify one’s gastrointestinal plumbing to point where you’re able to eat anything and still shit like a normally functioning person: hushpuppies, pork barbeque, pickled pig’s feet, enriched uranium It’s a cumulative effect…a tolerance for fried, high-fat cuisine. But move that calorie-crammin’ hillbilly ass to another region of the U.S. for a few years, and you can watch your Dixie-Tough tummy turn into the proverbial chess-club nerd. That’s right! That tolerance for fried garbage will say “Adios, Senor!”, and so will your life-style of gravy-soaked, gluttonous chow-hogging. It’s a wonder I’ve stayed thin all these years.