Tomatoes, jalapeños, and any other vegetables that make me want to crap out a cement mixer

Sure they're good, but I'll pay later.

A couple of weeks ago, I was on vacation with friends, and we sat down for a nice lunch of freshly barbecued hamburgers, potato salad, and sweet tea. Because I tend to put on weight during the summer due to the fact that it’s too hot to leave my house for exercise and I really only eat Doritos and lard cubes, I’ve been feeling a bit chunkier than usual. So, when preparing my burger, I skipped the cheese and Manteca spread, and instead loaded up on lettuce, tomatoes, and onions. I know a loaded hamburger is not exactly healthy, but I figured the nutrients in vegetables couldn’t be all bad, and even though I don’t really like the aforementioned vegetables, I was trying to make the point to my heart that I don’t exactly hate it either. Well, I enjoyed that burger, thinking to myself that I should try vegetables with my meat more often.

Later that night, I moseyed out to the back porch with my friend to enjoy a six-pack of Zima and a couple of vanilla flavored cigars—you know, the things guys only get to enjoy when their wives are preoccupied with hanging out, drinking beers, and watching porn. I was feeling pretty good about life. But, then, not two drags into my appletini dipped cigar, I felt that old familiar rumble downstairs. I calmly left my Zima and cigar and

jogged carefully into the bathroom to take care of the deuce. As I finished up, I noted that I was unusually sweaty and out of breath, as if I’d walked to the mailbox or tried to get off my couch in the middle of the day. I felt weird and weak, and I was more than a little worried that my friend would make fun of me for being gone so long. But I put it out of my mind, determined to enjoy my pathetically short vacation.

Back to my malt beverage and smoking phallus. Relaxing, talking about Oprah’s Favorite Things, manicures, and sitting on the washing machine when you’re home alone. Genuinely enjoying the opportunity to spend time with someone who listens when you talk about your emotional issues.

And then it happened again. Again, not five minutes after I finished the last wave of fecal defortification, I found myself virtually sprinting (or as close as I’m able to muster) back to the bathroom. My stomach knotted up like I was watching “How Stella Got Her Groove Back”, and just when I thought it was over, I was struck by another wave, now with cramps. I didn’t cry, but I almost did. And so went the rest of my night, and in fact, the rest of my weekend. Over the course of the next week and a half, I lost nearly 10 pounds because I crapped out all of my internal organs, including my lungs. I couldn’t eat anything without feeling like I was about to pass a porcupine out my ass. It was excruciating and embarrassing (kind of like the erection I got from “How Stella Got Her Groove Back”), and I’ll never forget my shame.

Later that week, on the radio I heard about the wave of salmonella sweeping the nation, passed through tomatoes. It turns out I was the only person at the barbeque who ate the tomatoes. Everyone else splurged and had the buffalo blubber and mustard. No one else died the small death that is infectious gastroenteritic collywobbles. To this day, I shake and curse uncontrollably when I walk through the produce section at the local neighborhood grocery store. I will forever be cursed by that vacation, and now I will forever hate tomatoes, jalapeños, and any other vegetables that make me want to crap out a cement mixer.