The Wal-Mart Exlax Story (Guest Post – Patrons Only)

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Editor’s Note: One of the great things about what we do here at SoBros Network, probably the greatest thing, is that we’ve created a bond with the people we’ve met along the way. 

Take Ben here, for instance. We met Ben at SCI in Chattanooga in 2017. He’s a good dude – ask anybody who’s had the pleasure of meeting him. But, when he heard we now had a Patreon, and that the main goal of our Patreon was to provide subscribers with a more in-depth look at the SoBros Network business and the people who make it tick, he sprung into action. 

“I’ve got a story for you…” he said as we chit-chatted via Twitter DM. 

I was floored. I couldn’t help but feel a bit taken aback by the fact that we have built something that people believe in here, but that we have friends out there who are willing to jump in and push this machine uphill with us. 

So, a special thanks to Ben, for all of his support, and for alleviating some of my constant stress this week. I’ll hand it over to him now. 

-Stoney

The Wal-Mart Exlax Story

(Note, this is from my college days in Florida, and is 100% true)

That  morning I awoke in a state of greater nausea than any human has ever  encountered, save for Courtney Love’s OB/GYN. The usual buffet of Tums,  Pepto and Ginger Ale weren’t doing the trick, and I am far too delicate a  flower to pull the Tracey Gold Special. No, I figured to quell my  nausea, it would be best to just get the shit out of my system.  Literally.

So, riding the churning waters of nausea’s  digestive ocean, I made my way to the local Eckerd Drug store, in search  of Extreme Measures. Few were to be found. Then, my eyes fell upon a  certain box, one that may as well have contained a bright yellow DANGER  sign. A disappointing sigh left my lungs, and, much like when they had  to kill Old Yeller, I realized that I had no other choice.

I  grabbed the box of Ex-Lax, and brought it to the counter, hidden of  course under a bag of cough drops and a Kit-Kat, lest anyone behind me  in line gain pleasure in the news that I’d be spending my day acting as a  human fire hose. To speed up the process, I also procured a Moe’s  burrito, known worldwide for its cleansing powers. Still horrifically  nauseated, I return to home and immediately took the recommended dosage  of two tablets. The package told me that I was supposed to take two per day, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I then sat in my chair and waited for the inevitable “Rumble in the Jungle.”

Two  hours passed. No Rumble. No Jungle. No nothing. And of course it’s not  like I could go anywhere, because I knew that the second I left my dorm,  that familiar bubble will hit. Isn’t this stuff supposed to work  quickly? Meanwhile, I’m still feeling like it’s my first trimester.  Something must be done. I looked at the box, examined my nauseous state,  and made the executive decision to take two more Ex-Lax.

3pm  came. Certainly now, after taking TWICE the recommended dosage, my  system will be cleared. Right? 3:30. Nothing. 4:00. Not even a rumble.  4:30. Still nauseous, no exit in sight. 5pm. NO POOPIE. 6pm. NO POOPIE!  WHAT THE FUCK?

Dinnertime struck, and being a diabetic, I have  to eat at regular times or face even greater consequences than nausea  or whatever this Ex-Lax would provide. So I ate, figuring maybe adding  something to my stomach would either quell my nausea, or at the very  least, jostle something to get the floodgates open. Right? I ordered  Chinese takeout (that’ll work for sure!), and consumed it post-haste,  hoping to jostle the Colon Gods.

7pm now. I was getting  gravely concerned. I hadn’t gone eight hours without going to the  bathroom in the past three months, and NOW, after FOUR Ex-Lax, I CAN’T  GO???? I stare at the box. It taunts me a little bit, especially its  warnings of “do not take more than two in a day” and “Do not take if you  are a breastfeeding baby.” I then make the fateful decision to turn  four ex-lax into SIX. For you Math majors, that’s three times the  recommended dosage.

But it got even weirder. 8pm. No dice. Nine o clock…nothin…Ten? Not even a wet fart.

Now  I was getting very annoyed and painfully nauseous. I had eaten two  meals, taken six ex-lax, and yet the TP roll on my desk was sitting  there, virginally unused, and the latest Sporting News (edit: there’s a  dated reference) lonely and unread. So, nauseous, tired, and frustrated,  at midnight, I decided to go to Wal-Mart and get some milk and some  Ny-Quil, to aid in sleep. Also, it should be noted that the DeLand  Wal-Mart is the BIGGEST WALMART IN FLORIDA!!! And for a state south of  the Mason-Dixon, that must mean that it’s “pretty friggin huge.”

So  I hop in my car and start making my way towards Wal-Mart. And of  course, almost as scripted, only THEN do I start to feel my first  digestive rumble. And a second rumble. And a third, And VERY QUICKLY, my  stomach is bubbling, rumbling, twisting and twirling as if I have a  colonic centrifuge in full gear. But by this point I’ve gone too far.  “Oh Shit” is all that can escape through my lips as I pull into the  SuperGiantHugeMassiveMega Walmart Parking lot, and waddle into  Capitalism Gone Wrong, reasoning “Okay, I’ll just pick up my milk and  NyQuil, and safely make it home, where I can rocket pure evil out of my  colon without offending Wal-Mart shoppers.” I pick up my basket, and  waddle on down to get my milk, which is in one corner of the Wal-Mart  complex. Earthquake-like rumblings are coming from my bladderial region  now, and by this point the waddle has turned into a sliding saunter. I  grab my half-gallon of moo juice, and start looking for the NyQuil.

Now  I’m convinced that my friendly, blue-vested Wal-Mart employee must have  seen the vein popping out of my forehead and the strained look on my  face when I asked her the simple question “Where is the pharmacy  section? I need some NyQuil so I can sleep.” How did I know she noticed  my expression? Because, with the look of sympathy that one gives to a  girl who just watched her dog get run over, she removed a map (a fucking  map!) from her pocket, and pointed to the bottom left corner of that  map. “You are here,” she sympathetically remarked, and, in a cruel twist  of fate, pointed to the top right corner of the map, which was roughly  FIFTY MILES AWAY and said “the pharmacy is there.” I sighed.a great,  burdensome sigh that’s subtlety could have been easily picked up by  Helen Keller. I can make it. I can make it. I can make it. Just a little  farther. Past the scores of Kathie Lee Sweatshop Clothing. Past the  racks of Oprah Magazines. Only a little farther. Past the auto section.  Just a bit more. Past the eyeglass center (WHO THE FUCK BUYS EYEGLASSES  AT WALMART? AAAHHH!) Finally, I found the pharmacy section, and the same  wave of relief that washed over Columbus when he discovered the New  World came over me. Triumphantly, I picked up my NyQuil, and turned  around to ring up my goods when……

Sweet Jesus. It hit, and  with furious vengeance. And while this story would probably have been  funnier if I had soiled myself inside the Wal-Mart, I am proud to say  that I ran with Jesse Owens-like speed to the Restroom, and LAID WASTE  to their comode. I expelled with the violence and fury of a NASA launch  roughly everything I’d eaten since the Carter administration. I may or  may not have cried. I courtesy flushed FOUR TIMES. Surprisingly however,  I didn’t make a mess, every missile reached its target, and I cleaned  up and washed my hands for a good five minutes, checked in the mirror to  make sure all of my body parts were still attached, as I felt like I  had just birthed a hurricane.

I emerged from the bathroom,  soaked in sweat, shaking, and feeling very cold (of course, I had lost  about ten percent of my body weight in the process), and returned to the  scene of my dropped NyQuil. I picked up my basket and what was left of  my dignity, and then, wobbly-kneed, checked out my items. The counter  girl attempted to strike up conversation with me, but I was in a state  of shock, and able to only mumble unintelligible noises. I grabbed my  purchased items, returned to my car, and drove home relieved and a  little dizzy.

I slept better that night than I had in weeks.

-Ben Zani, @BostonNooga on Twitter

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