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As a paramedic it is often difficult to not only eat at work, but to eat relatively healthy. I developed a sweet tooth one day and if theres one thing I love, its gummy snacks.

“Oh look! Sugar free gummy bears! I haven’t had gummy bears since I was in middle school!” I exclaimed to my partner. And the fact that they were sugar free practically made them healthy, right?

I downed quite a few of them on the way to the next call and had finished the bag by the early August afternoon.

In the oppressive southern heat, we were dispatched to an unconscious person. As we traversed the city streets I began to get cold chills and cramps despite the triple digit temperatures. My abdomen was obviously bloated and the noises…oh god, the noises.

We arrived on scene and quickly loaded the critical patient into the ambulance. I grabbed a firefighter to ride with me in case the patient crashed before we got to the emergency room. In the back, the pressure was building against my dirty rosebud. I had to release something and thought that if I could just let some air out, I might not have to change my pants.

I leaned to the side, putting pressure on one cheek to try to sneak it out without being noticed. I was able to get it off without soiling myself, but the smell…oh my gawd.

The fireman wrinkled his nose as I wiped the sweat from my face.

“Does she have a GI bleed? A necrotic bowel?” he asked.

As soon as we hit the ER doors I was off like a Kenyan on methamphetamine for the bathroom. I tried to use a hallway bathroom, but it was occupied. My only other option was the bathroom right outside the nurses station. I mean, it was RIGHT outside the nurses station. The door was a mere five feet from their desks. All those pretty, young, nurses. With no other option, I ran back, trying to keep my cheeks clinched. Little staccato bursts of sulfuric farts punctuated each yard as I raced for the finish line hoping that I could keep my chocolate starfish clenched tight enough to stem the tide.

I ripped the door open and somehow managed to drop my pants without undoing my belt. What erupted sounded like a steamroller driving through a bubble wrap factory. I knew it was audible from the nurses station and I had nearly knocked a pretty blonde out of her chair during my mad dash. As the sense of relief from the pressure washed over me, so did the smell. It smelled like someone took a bag of dirty diapers, filled it with rotting body parts, and let it sit in the sun for two weeks.

I sat there, petrified, but also doubled over with the sort of cramps that make one pray for death.

“Tonya? What is that SMELL?!” came a voice from outside the door. I knew there was no escaping with my dignity intact. I sent a text to my partner from the bathroom telling her I was sick and to let me know when she was ready to leave. When she replied I dashed from the bathroom back to the ambulance.

“I gotta go home. I’m sick.” I told her. We started back for the station and were a few miles away when we witnessed a car wreck. The kind of car wreck where you KNOW someone is injured and its hard to sneak past it when you’re in an enormous truck that says, “AMBULANCE”.

We had more units responding and if I could just keep from sharting I’d be ok. I stepped out of the truck cramping and sweaty and knew I was in over my head. My partner walked to one car and I climbed into the back of the ambulance. I looked around, desperate for relief. I spotted the biohazard trashcan. Hmm…

I locked the doors and squatted over the can. It was small and I knew I couldn’t put my weight on it without breaking it. Fleetingly I considered the wisdom of this decision but by then the floodgates on my rusty sheriffs badge had opened and I sprayed pure fecal evil into the can.

Now let me say that ambulances and all the parts and equipment on them, are built by the lowest bidder…this includes the locks on the doors. Attempting to retrieve a piece of equipment, my partner tried the door. Thinking the lock was just stuck she pulled on the handle hard. The mechanism broke and we locked eyes as I unleashed another volley of pure, concentrated gummy death that sounded like two events happening at once: the sound of wet denim ripping, and like trying to burp with a mouthful of pudding. Luckily she did not see my sausage and man berries as I was cupping them in one hand to keep them from being sprayed with poo mist.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sick…SHUT THE DOOR!” I screamed. The door slammed and I managed to find an extra sheet which I cut up and wiped with. Now the next question: what was I supposed to do about the red plastic trashcan full of steaming excrement that had the consistency of watered down pancake batter? I triple bagged it and placed it outside in a spare compartment.

We blissfully made it back and I was able to make it home, stopping only twice more to defile public restrooms. My partner never worked with me again and the nurses at the ER still haven’t forgiven me for their bathroom.

Thanks, Haribo.