The search for a cure

I was a fabulously wealthy man, with enough money to live an extravagant and lavish life many times over. I had many close friends, a beautiful wife and two wonderful children who adored me, and many beautiful homes around the world that I divided my time between.

However, my whole life, I suffered with a problem.

From birth I was stricken with unstoppable diarrhoea. Like lightning, the Tijuana cha-cha would appear loudly, explosively and without warning, leaving me ashamed and hobbling quickly to the nearest public facilities, This thunder-down-under would leave me shaking at the knees with the sheer force of the flow, an unexpected mudslide in an otherwise perfect day.

As a baby it was less of a problem, as that’s all babies are really expected to do, after all. But as I grew older and continued to fire liquid shit out of my rear end, I became more and more shy, and embarrassed at my continuous production of poop smoothies. I met a beautiful girl, who became my beautiful wife, not caring that I was so afflicted. My friends too, took no notice of my ass vomit, looking past it and seeing the man inside, rather than just what was inside the man. But despite the support of those close to me, I could never feel truly normal, always a step apart from other people, and usually a step closer to the bathroom at that.

I spent many thousands of dollars jetting round the globe, consulting the leading doctors and scientists of the age to get to the bottom of the problem with my bottom, but with no success. I met with Yogis in India, proctologists in Switzerland, and diagnosticians in America. I paid a leading biologist a million dollars to abandon a project he was working on and see if he could find a way to stall my stool, with no luck. I was seen by immunologists, bacteriologists and even homeopathic healers, none of whom could find an answer to my problem. I went to Peru, Australia, Mozambique, Guatemala and even the Sahara desert, chasing leads and desperately trying to find a way to rid myself of my southern slip ’n’ slide. I became more and more obsessed with curing myself, slowly driving away my family and friends, and offering greater and greater rewards for a cure, a ceasefire, even a temporary halt to the pyroclastic movement of my bowel movements.

After many years of searching, and finding no answers, I finally gave up hope in a small village in Tibet, where I had met with the local wise-man, to no avail. I fell to my knees, my whole body heaving with wracking sobs, clawing at the dusty ground with my unkempt nails.

‘You okay, friend?’, came a voice from above me, in a strong Texan accent. I raised my tear-streaked face, and saw a older white man standing in front of me, his hands in the pockets of his beaten denim jacket. He had a long grey beard, and a shock of wild grey hair, framing kind eyes and a sympathetic smile. He picked me up off the ground, dusted me down, and led me over to a nearby wooden bench. I told him my story, of my fabulous wealth, my wonderful life, and the unending chocolate rain that nearly driven me insane and flushed my relationships down the drain. All the while, he stroked his beard, watching me thoughtfully.

“I would give everything I possess, every bent penny, just to have it stop” I finally wailed, bursting into tears once more. He was quiet for a moment, then, taking my hand, he stood from the bench and walked down the road with me. As we walked, he shared his life story in turn. He had been a prominent and lauded scientist, born in Texas and showered with awards and prizes his entire life. After many years of being invited to countless balls and ceremonies, he grew tired of all the attention, feeling that it was getting in the way of the real science. He’d relocated to this small village in Tibet, where he’d built a state of the art laboratory to do his research without interruption or distraction. As he finished relating his story, we arrived at a large building, not quite in keeping with the of the houses that surrounded it, but still beautiful and warm from the outside.

He invited me in, and in amazement I took in his lab, with it’s gleaming machinery and equipment, and great bookshelves stuffed with journals and scientific tomes lining every wall. He sat me down on a chair by a vast microscope, and pulling up my sleeve, took a small skin sample, and put it under the lens of the scope. He studied the sample for a long while, hmm-ing and ahhh-ing, before sitting back with a triumphant smile across his kindly face.

Then he gave me my answer and synthesised a cure, and true to my word, I gave him everything I possessed, every bent penny, losing everything, but gaining the only thing that I felt truly mattered.

“Aha”, he said, “ just as I thought. I’m surprised none of those great doctors you consulted before thought of this.”

“See, diarrhoea is hereditary. It runs in your genes”.

Submitted July 31, 2018 at 12:38PM by WoodrowDontHaveAnOar https://ift.tt/2ApVLZZ