Hey, loyal SportsCracklePop reader. My name is Justin. Remember me?
It’s been a week since I’ve posted anything on the ol’ interwebs, but I have an excellent excuse. Two excuses, actually.
1. I was away, in Boston, to watch the Celtics not win a title and the entire city’s fanbase immediately turn it’s attention the Red Sox and act as if the Finals never happened.
2. Also, I had nothing to say.
Luckily, King Ing kept everyone amused with pictures of naked men and old people falling at baseball games. Sadly though, his ongoing search for an old naked person falling at a baseball game drags on unfulfilled. He is Ahab and naked old people tripping down stadium steps are his proverbial Moby Dick.
Aside from watching a fraudulent sports city collectively shoot off that little mind eraser device from Men In Black, I also did a little science experiment while I was away.Â I call it the immovable object vs the unstoppable force. In this case, the immovable object is the contents of myÂ bowels while away from home and the unstoppable force is my low-grade lactose intolerance.
The results may shock you.
Let’s start at the beginning. Much like the New York Mets, I can not perform on the road. While in the friendly confines of my own home and my own office, I am a world class pooper. But the second I leave the comforts of the 10028 and 10014 area codes, the factory immediately stops churning out product. Why is that the case? I have no idea.Â At first I thought it had to do with where I was staying. Perhaps I was uncomfortable trying to do that while staying with my friends, many of who now with girls. I DON’T WANT YOUR SIGNIFICANT OTHER JUDGING ME!
But why doesn’t it work in hotels, when the ladies are not present? And why doesn’t it work at my parents’ house. I lived there for 20 years, and dropped regular healthy doubles during that time. Yet, over the years since, that well has dried up as well.
I didn’t think there would ever be a solution. I hate traveling anyway, but this just makes it worse. From the second I leave for vacation until the moment I return, it’s always on my mind. Where is all this food and alcohol I am jamming down my gullett going? It’s just sitting there, waiting for an eventual release. This usually comes at inoppurtune times and locations. I have disgraced some of the dirtiest bar bathrooms in our great land. I have also done the deed on commuter trains (had to use a printed schedule to wipe cause there was no paper,) in Grand Central Terminal, at Logan Airport, and at various malls and shopping centers. If my body doesn’t give out while on the trip, the big moment will come the second I walk into the door at home upon my return. Keys, bags, and mail are all thrown toÂ the floor as I sprint from the front door to the bathroom. And that cab ride from the airport/train station/bus station is no picnic as I struggle to prevent any premature evacuation. You want a good workout for your Glutes? Trying squeezing in 5 days worth of shit in while sitting in theÂ back of a car caught in rushhour traffic on Park Avenue.
On the other hand, there is the unstoppable force.
I scream, you scream, we all scream when I eat ice cream. Mainly because it turns my stomach into the gastrointestinal equivalent of the blown BP oil well, oozing thick brown liquid uncontrollably.Â It could be just a spoonful of breyers or just a sip of a chocolate shake but, within minutes, there is action. Terrible, terrible action. Searing pain. Bargains with god to make it stop. Fear that my ancient buildings septic system will not be able to handle what’s being thrown at it. Truly, a terrible experience every time.
So, which one wins?
The idea to experiment hit me Sunday night. What if I eat ice cream on the road? I decided to give it a shot, though I didn’t dive in full bore. Instead, I ordered a root beer float and ate about half of the ice cream that was included. And then I waited. Everything was status quo for about an hour. It seemed the immovable object was just that. Until we hit the MassPike. Then, the familiar bloated feeling began.
Could it be? Was I going to go? It seemed likelier and liklier as the minutes passed and the traffic started to build up on New Englands favorite highway. At exit 14 I asked how long till we get home. At exit 17 I asked if there was a reststop nearby. By the time we parked in front of my Dave in Brighton’s home (in Brighton) ALL SYSTEMS WERE GO!
It was glorious. It was painful. It was humiliating. It included an encore about 45 minutes later.
It was SWEET RELIEF!
There were no silent prayers for my system to hold out on the Amtrak ride home. There was no frantic sweating in the back of taxi. (Hell, I was so relaxed and at ease, I took the subway home from Penn Station.)
So, your welcome science. For I have answered the unanswerable question.
Lactose intolerance does indeed trump mental disorder.
I wear a size XL for my nobel prize t-shirt. Get it in the mail.