My cousin Diane is a big person in a little package; five feet, two inches of Texas spitfire. She never hesitates to tell you exactly how she feels. The first time she met my husband, she nicknamed him 'Ass', as in 'Sit down, Ass', or 'Get me some tea, Ass', or, her favorite, 'Shutup, Ass'.
Cousin Diane lives in a teensy town and everyone knows her. She has an administrative position in the local hospital, and lives alone since her divorce. The only child of the marriage is a daughter, grown and gone, but not too far away. Diane is well loved, despite her sharp tongue and propensity to give people nicknames like 'Ass'.
One day she was shopping at the Piggly Wiggly and as she strolled down the baking aisle, she spotted the bags of coconut and thought, 'Hey, Diane! Why don't you make a coconut cake!' So she put a bag of coconut in her cart, checked out, and went home.
As you well know, there are two types of people in this world: Those who love coconut, and those who hate it. Rare is the person who is noncommital on coconut. As you may have guessed, Cousin Diane falls squarely in the 'Loves Coconut' category. So it was no surprise that she decided to sit down and watch her stories on TV, and have just a little of the coconut as a snack. What may come as a surprise is that she ate the entire bag.
Damn. she thought to herself, I ate the whole bag! But it's coconut, not crack. It's not like you can OD on it. So she thought.
Some time later, Diane began to feel the rolling and rumbling usually associated with the onset of some gastic distress. Lordy. I feel like I have a basketball in my asshole. (Note: Those were Diane's actual words as she was retelling the story. Lordy, I feel like I have a basketball in my asshole. Lest you think I exaggerate.) So she goes into the bathroom, sits on the commode and attempts to do what needed to be done.
Except there is no doing. Because while she does not have a basketball in her asshole, she does have a coconutball in her asshole. Apparently, when you eat an entire bag of coconut, it lodges itself in your rearhole and forms a cement-like plug. After a good bit of strenuous pushing, she decides that it's not coming out on it's own. So she goes to the kitchen and gets a spoon, thinking she can use it as a wedge.
Yes, you read that right.
While she's getting the spoon, she takes a minute to call her daughter and explain the situation. Leaving out the part about the spoon. "I think you might need to come over here." Diane says.
She gets off the phone and heads back to the toilet where she starts mentally preparing herself. But sticking a spoon up your rear is a little like ripping off a band aid, the more you think about it, the worse it is. Either you need to jam it up there right away, or it's never going to happen. The more Diane thought about it, the more upset she became, and she soon starting hyperventilating.
When her daughter arrived, she found her passed out on the bathroom floor, pants around her ankles, clutching the spoon.
Coconutball - 1
Spoon - 0
The daughter rushed her off to the hospital, the very same hospital where Diane had been employed for 25 years. The nurses who hoisted her onto a table, rump high in the air, cheeks spread, all knew her by name. The doctor who chipped out the coconutball piece by piece and removed it, she'd dated briefly in high school. They all said they'd never seen anything like it. They all said they had no idea coconut could harden up like that.
She didn't say a word about the spoon.
Some weeks later, the incident finally forgotten, Diane once again found herself on the baking aisle at the Piggly Wiggly. She unconsciously slowed, and heard a low ahem behind her. It was the doctor. He smiled and winked and said, "I hope you're not feeling coconutty."
1 day ago