A few years back I was dating a girl and we did not agree on acceptable levels of flatulence in our lives. I felt that within the confines of our own apartments, a few accidental vapor babies every hour or so was fine. But we did not smell nose to nose on this. She noticed even the smallest change of atmosphere and not even the silent ones could find refuge within their quiet ways.

Knowing that the only way to stop her from hitting me would be to do something about my digestive track, I looked for a product that would quell the frequent parties in my pants.

I opted for Digestive Advantage Gas Defence Formula. I don’t know if this is the best product, but I do know that this is my favoirte one, since it’s the one I flew to Ireland with. In  2007  Ganeden Biotech had a short story contest called the Get Uncorked and Go to Cork contest. My story “Constipated With Love” won it, sending my friend Joey Kadlec and I on an all expenses paid trip to Cork Ireland. I’m just revisiting and writing about that trip since… well most of the stories are the kind we should be ashamed of.  I found the story “Constipated With Love” wallowing away in a forgotten corner of my hard drive and decided to set it free upon the world. 

Constipated With Love

As he sped east towards Cork, Ireland, the song on the radio faded and the voice of the baritone announcer boomed through the speaker. “Well folks, all west bound traffic has been backed up two to three hours due to a three car pile up on National Primary Road 22. It has been advised that…”

Ha, he responded heartily to the announcement and looked at the long line of stopped traffic moving from the city. For him two to three hours would have been a cakewalk. A paradise. An oasis. How long had it been? His last memory of a successful trip to the men’s room seemed weeks ago. He nostalgically thought back to the ‘good old days’ when the river of his bowels was free to flow into the toilet’s ocean with ease. The good old days when he did not need to fill his plate with roughage in the vane hope that enough apricots or cabbage would purge his blocked intestinal highway.

His stomach bloated as he put on his bow tie while driving. “Mr. and Mrs. John Constantine,” he said proudly to himself as he increased his speed so as not to be late for his own wedding.

He could not tell if the sick feeling in his stomach was due to pre-wedding nervousness or because of his two weeks of constipation. Both feelings mixed together to create an overwhelmingly unpleasant nausea.

A new pang tightened his stomach as he remembered that he had forgotten to compose his vows. His business had had an emergency in the inopportune time right before his wedding, and in lieu of this, his vows remained unwritten. He increased his speed again and watched the speedometer pass 150 km/h. He shuddered as he thought of how important carefully crafted vows were to his bride to be and watched Ireland’s green hills speed by in an emerald blur.

Outside the bathroom stall of St. Fin Barre’s Cathedral his best man offered him reassurances as he hopelessly tried to free his bowels and unsuccessfully tried to compose the perfect vows in his head. It was all to no avail. Push, push, push and nothing. Think, think, think and nothing.

All to soon, the pivotal moment came. In front of the church’s alter John Constantine listened with a sinking feeling to the beautifully poetic words flowing freely from his bride’s lips. His clogged mind was still desperately searched for the right words. Think, think, think and nothing. It was his turn to recite his unwritten vows. Think, think, think and nothing. His bowels and his mind were in the same stopped state. Think, think, think and nothing. The church was filled with an anxious silence as his vexed mind raced through various avenues of thought. Think, think, think and then, something! He felt his mind becoming free. Deliverance! His thoughts were flowing as freely as the bowels of a child who against his mother’s warnings ate a whole bag of plums. It was unrestrained and liberated.

He opened his mouth and spoke boldly, “Love,” he began, “is like constipation.” A few nervous giggles came from the church and his soon to be father-in-law cast him a doubtful glance. He continued unrepressed. “Love is like constipation because it comes upon you suddenly and stops everything in its tracks. We don’t search for love. Love is something that just happens. Love stops all movements and in the beginning causes you to stay in the same place. When I first met Fiona that’s how it was. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat. I was constipated with love. But then, after time and effort, this constipated love moves forward. Marriage is about moving forward from all fear and finally letting everything go. I promise today to be forever constipated with love for you Fiona.”

His voice resonated through the church. He looked into his Fiona’s eyes as a tear slowly grew in the bottom of each eye. She smiled as one tear slowly slipped down her rosy cheek. They were pronounced husband and wife and before the reception John Constantine made a trip to the men’s room, where he let everything go. Push, push, push and he was free falling.