This week, the Sheldon comic devoted three days to the subject of Food Poisoning.



As with just about everything people write about digestive sickness, I consider it rather understated.

I don’t get “A Touch of Food Poisoning”, I get “Touched by Chainsaws, Flame Throwers and Sidewinder Missiles”.

I don’t feel “Bloated” or “Stuffed”, I feel “Like Whatever I Ate Smuggled In Its Extended Family”.

I don’t get “Nausea”, I get “Meals Arrested by the Arizona Police and Deported to Countries They’ve Never Been To Before”.

I don’t get “Heartburn”, I get “Internal Eyjafjallajökull Eruptions with Occasional Krakatoa”.

I don’t get an “Upset Stomach”, I get a “Stomach Screaming Obscenities, Throwing Things a Me and Leaving Me to Go Home to Mother, Taking Several Other Vital Organs With It”.

I don’t have “Excess Stomach Acid”, I have “A Chemical Experiment Go Wrong in My Stomach Creating a Universal Solvent That Burns a Hole to the Center of the Earth”.

I don’t get “Cramping”, I get “Everyone at a Boy Scout Jamboree Practicing Knots With my Intestines”.

I don’t get “Irregularity”, I get “Total Irresponsibility that make Lindsay Lohan Appear Saint-like by Comparison”.

I don’t get “Diarrhea”, I get “Deepwater Horizon”.

I don’t “Fart”, I “Turn the Room I Am In into the San Quentin Gas Chamber”.

I don’t get “The Runs”, I get “The Boston Marathon (that doesn’t end until that fat guy who never should have entered crosses the finish line 3 days later)”.

I don’t do “The Pepto Bismol Dance”, I do “St. Vitus’ Dancing With the Stars with the Combined Casts of Lost and The Wire”.

And I don’t have something that I eat “Disagree With Me”, I have something that I eat “Call Me Names, Accuse Me of Crimes Against Humanity, Declare Me Unfit to Live, and Call for My Public Assassination.” (And honestly, I don’t remember eating Glenn Beck)