Anyone reading this knows Bud Light Lime is an absolutely terrible beer. I know it’s popular, but if you like it, you probably have Asperger syndrome. I couldn’t find sales to date but I could give less than a fraction of a fuck. A single can of this stuff, ruined my entire Memorial Day. For you TL:DR losers out there, I’ll cut to the chase. Diarrhea. In my pants. In/on a toilet. In the shower. Yes, that last one was not a joke.
I was handed the can early in the afternoon, and not one to back down from a challenge, I cracked it open and slugged it back. No flavor and some very artificial tasting lime. Later, I was informed with a grin that my friend, a man I trusted dearly, found the can in his golf bag a few mornings before, and had no idea where it came from. This led to an inspection of the born on date, and after some translation, learned it was born in February of 2012. I thought it held up surprisingly well given its age. I went on with my afternoon basking in the sun, floating in the pool and eating fantastic ribs.
Hours later, I stopped into the used beer department. I notice the presence of some gas while there, and let a few fly. No harm no foul. As I’m washing my hands, I lift a leg, squint my left eye and push for one last pop. Alas, I had been deceived and this gamble resulted in a shit that couldn’t have been dissimilar to that of a stray cat I found as a child, fed nothing but milk for a week, and then watched blow diarrhea all over my sister as she lugged him around by his midsection.
I immediately felt the sensation of mud running down my leg. I pulled my pants back down and unleashed fury into the bowl. After considerable fanfare, I started to address the mess. And what a mess it was. It had run halfway down the back of my leg and was now on the toilet seat and had left a visibly noticeable wet spot down the leg of my jeans. Not one to panic in the face of shitting one’s own pants, I gave up on my leg and ass, pulled up my pants and made the treacherous journey back into the crowded living room to grab my bag containing a pair of shorts. I acted casual and deliberate as I grabbed the bag and hauled ass down to the basement bathroom.
I get to the basement bathroom, peel off my pants and start cleaning up my leg/taint/ass. To my astonishment, I had to unleash a whole new round of the unspeakable. After what seemed like an eternity and half a roll of toilet paper, I bagged up my jeans and boxers, grabbed the rest of my stuff and got the fuck out of there. I felt the urge to fart the entire drive home, but was too terrified to even think about letting one go.
After reaching my apartment, I sat and shat for another 10 minutes. The only choice left was to hop in the shower and try to clean the shame off. The water was hot and blasted out of the shower head at full force like several dozen tiny fire hoses. I really took my time to scrub the almighty fuck out of any area that may have had even the slightest amount of contact with the evil that had, quite literally, poured out of my body. Just as I was finishing, I felt the pang of lower gastrointestinal inflation. While I should have been terrified beyond rational thought to even consider releasing it into the wild, I also had the idea “There’s no possible way anything is left in me right now.”
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I was so wrong.
I heard no audio and only felt the familiar slide of mud down my leg. Soiled, saddened and stupefied, I turned the water up to scalding hot, rinsed as well as I could, lathered up the washcloth more than any washcloth could be lathered and re-washed with the force of a brillow pad on tile. Washcloth and towel: placed in quarantine to be burned. Clothes: left for dead in a dumpster. Dignity: flushed away several times.
Safe to say I will never drink a Bud Light Lime ever again.
An open mind and a few beers can make anywhere an adventure.
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