The “Liberating” Trip of a Lifetime
In 2007, Ganedon Biotech Co. wanted constipated people across America to think of them when they sought relief. So they hosted the “Get Uncorked and Go to Cork” Contest to promote their new Digestive Advantage medication (Yep, I am not making this up, this was totally a real thing! Entrants submitted short stories on the theme of being constipated and Ireland.
To my jumping wooohooo elation, the panel of experts in the genre of intestinal blockage literature selected my entry “Constipated With Love,” as the winner. It was the story of a man constipated on his wedding day. He’s forgotten to write his vows and freezes on his cue. As my story went:
“His clogged mind was still desperately searching 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.”
The prize was a trip for two to Cork, Ireland. Some months later, my friend Joey claimed the prize and were chugging cheap cider in a luxurious hotel room with heated towel racks (such luxury we had never seen in our 23 years of slap stick life).
Thirsty Scholars in Cork
By day, Joey and I walked around and took pictures of churches, bridges, and once a shopping cart that had been hurled off a bridge into a small creek.
By night, we did what one expects of two 23-year-olds from America’s number one binge drinking state (North Dakota, represent!).
We let loose in the world’s drunkest country by reputation. We raged. I went into pubs and and I immediately spoke to the minstrels for permission to play my #1 college hit, “Beer, Beer, Beer and the girls come here.”
The more nights we drank, the stronger a goal became—I wanted like Christmas to play my song “Beer, Beer, Beer and the Girls Come Here” to the fine folks of Ireland.
Joey and I began our nights at a nearby pub called The Thirsty Scholar—for we saw ourselves as such. There was video gambling there and a man who called himself The Clamper.
“‘Tis Beamish, not Guinness, that is the greatest beer in all of Ireland!” The Clamper declared full of confidence.
Our young minds were blown. Someone was still using the word “‘Tis.”
“Why do they call you The Clamper?” Joey asked.
“Because, if ya park where ya shan’t, I clamp your tires! ” The Clamper said he was on the clock that very minute. He said he would drink while he was working if he damn well pleased. That was how we learned that Ireland had progressive labor laws.
Broke and Thirsty in Ireland
Though no one would have guessed it from the heated towels we dried ourselves with every morning, Joey and I were thoroughly broke. When we visited Blarney Castle, we jumped in the river to retrieve Euro cents that wishers had cast. If they’d wish for us to have a pint, their wishes came true.
To save Euros, we’d boost our buzz between bars by drinking corner store cider from paper bags in the streets while debating if drinking in the streets was illegal.
Then, hot from the cider, we’d roll up to a pub and challenge someone to a beer chugging contest. I assumed beer-chugging was an imported Irish pastime brought to America during the Potato Famine. But based on having to explain the rules to every new challenger, it might have—like four storied, multi-valve beer bongs—emerged from the collective genius of America’s university students.
One Wall Too Far
On one frenzied night, we found ourselves in a jam packed pub where a troubadour was stooled in the far corner minstreling to the merry masses.
Joey squeezed to the bar and I pushed my way to the guitarist and asked if I could play Beer, Beer, Beer between his sets.
He acquiesced and my dream of “Beer, Beer, Beer” came true again. As drunk people do when a song ends, they clapped and I felt a prick of giddy pleasure shine from my alcohol saturated soul.
I squeezed my way back to Joey. An old furious man was shouting at him, “Ya stole my weed!”
“No I didn’t!” Joey turned to me, “He showed me his weed and I dropped it on the floor. It must still be down there somewhere.”
The three of us took a moment to search the ground, but each came up empty in his own time. The man pushed a finger into Joey’s chest and resumed where he’d left off, “Ya stole my weed!”
A murmur surrounded us. It seemed the sort of mumble that precedes a tussle. Things seemed about to get ugly. So I grabbed Joey by the collar and yelled that I was going to stab him in the throat and he was to come outside that very instant so I could kick his ass. The old man, sensing that I might be the crazier one, didn’t follow us into the street, where Joey and I made a giggling getaway.
“What a crazy dude,” I said when we turned the corner.
“Yeah,” agreed Joey, “But he did have a point. I did steal his weed.”
“What!” We must have been near a church, because a moment of Catholic guilt engulfed me then quickly passed.
Now it was our weed. It was no time to consider moral implications. Anyways, you read the title of this article—you know Karma was to arrive quick and crappy.
The Frenzied Road Home
We Irish jigged our way back to the hotel to smoke our bounty in the bathroom with the heated towels. “Roads?” Doc from Back to the Future could have said of our return route, “Where we’re going, we don’t need roads!”
Joey led us on a chaotic route of shortcuts. Many of these shortcuts consisted of climbing over walls and running through yards and away from dogs—being the sort of junior ambassadors every country hopes the youth they issue a passport to won’t be.
At one vine-covered wall, we paused to wee and that’s when Karma came to even her score with us. I thought it was just a fart, a wee bit of flatulence begging to escape in the soft evening air. But this was not gas. This was gas’s heavier cousin. I’d soiled myself.
It’s in such moments when one breathes deeply. One regards the stillness of the stars. One takes a moment to consider his place in the universe and where his life choices are leading him.
Did Joey see that I now climbed the walls stoically? Did he wonder why my smile was replaced with the worried expression of a child whose behavior is jeopardizing his birthday cake privileges? Did he miss my mirth and laughter. Did he find it a bit odd that before we explored our hotel to find a place to smoke, his friend insisted he take a midnight hour bath in the fancy bathroom with the heated towels?
I don’t know. All I know is that some say that bravery is chancing a fart when you have diarrhea. If that’s true, then I say courage is running a mile to your hotel after this act of bravery is committed. And while my pen is rich with possible prose, I will spare you a description of what that feels like.
“Get Uncorked and Go To Cork,” the contest advertised. And I did. And twelves years later, I’ve let go enough to tell the tale. I’m not proud that I have a story like this to tell—just glad to have a reminder. Whenever a drunk traveler in his early 20s perturbs my peace, do I have anything to complain about? No—just a big chunk of karma to pay off.
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