In 2009 I got so sick that I couldn’t get off the toilet for nearly eight days.

I have had stomach bugs and been sick before, but this was debilitating.

Some antibiotics I was taking to get over a cold had gone and destroyed my stomach lining.

I cried.

I couldn’t move or walk without my body wanting to erupt.

If I stayed still, all was well. Don’t move a muscle.

Remember in Jurassic Park how the T-Rex couldn’t see you if you just stayed dormant and didn’t move? That’s how my stomach was. My stomach had eaten a goat, and was now pissed the fuck off.

Shhh….don’t move.

Steve’s stomach doesn’t want to be fed, it wants to hunt.

Actually, it just wants this pain to be over.

I had to move at times, and when I did…it was disgusting.

I called into work.

Then I called into work again.

Then I called into work ag- What?! I HAVE to come in?

Shit.

Literally.

My job told me I was taking too many sick days, and if I didn’t come in, I’d be fired.

So, I sacked up, got dressed, and headed to work.

I had to stop at three gas station’s bathrooms on the way to work alone.

This was going to be a long night. In fact, I thought about quitting and just not showing up to work, it was that bad.

Oh, and to add insult to injury…I worked as a bar back at a strip club.

I’ve never had a job that I’ve hated so much.

Everything about it was depressing-

• The customers.
• The owners.
• My co-workers.
• The Strippers.
• The stripper’s small dogs.
• The constant smell of Hepatitis.
• Glitter.
• Nickelback.
• An endless sea of C-Section scars and rhinestones.
• Heels so tall they qualified as stilts.

I had a very good friend who got me the job though, and I didn’t want to upset him by not coming in to work.

I had a job to do, and I was going to do i- Oh my god, I need to change my boxers.

This was embarrassing.

I left the bar every few minutes in order to occupy a stall in our bathroom. My eyes were bloodshot from the straining all night. The only thing worse than having an upset stomach in a normal bathroom…is having an upset stomach in a strip club bathroom.

Constantly dusting the cocaine off my ass after it touched the strip-club toilet seat, or reading the bathroom wall poetry of which race is more dominant, and who is a ‘faggot.’

The worst part was that in a strip club bathroom there is always an attendant sitting there, able to hear your every movement.

Great.

He was nice, but he probably thought I was giving birth to some sort of life form in the stall.

But, hey, no big deal, right?!

Who cares what anyone who works at a strip club cares about my bowel movements?

I’m better than this place!

I don’t give a fuck, right?!

Water under the bridge, baby.

I will just sit here in my stall, no one will know who I am, and who is responsible for the awful smell in this restroom anyways. In fact, I’m felling pretty damn-

“Damn, what is that smell?!”

Wait, a minute.

Time out.

Hold on.

“Woo! Someone has got a rotten ass tonight, I gotta breath through my mouth on this shit, baby. Damn!”

Why does that voice sound so soulful?

I know that voice.

[Knock at the stall door]

“Hey man, other stall isn’t working, so hurry up, and can a nigga get a courtesy flush, man?! Change up your diet, damn!”

OH…..MY…..GOD.

I know that voice.

No way.

No.

Please god, no.

That voice. That voice had soul.

Real soul.

Like a god. Like a smooth, pimped out, God.

It was Richard Roundtree.

It was mother-fucking SHAFT.

I stood up from the toilet, flushed it, and then proceeded to throw up.

It splashed onto Shaft’s shoe.

I got puke on Shaft’s gators.

Fuck my life.

For an encore, I think I’ll give Pam Grier shingles.

What a nerd.

Then he said it-

“You got a stinky ass, man. That’s some funny shit.”

Oh my god, you’re Shaft.

“Yeah, you got puke on your shirt, man.”

Oh, shit.

As I’m cleaning off my shirt, I notice the white puke all over the toe of Shaft’s $1,000 shoes…but he doesn’t.

“Take some Pepto and go home man, you are the palest motherfucker I’ve ever seen.”

Yes sir, yes sir, Mr. Shaft. You got it. I’ll do that.

“…and pop a mint or some gum, kid.”

Will do, Mr. Shaft. Thank you, again. I’m sorry. Thank you.

If I hadn’t already evacuated my stomach, I would’ve just meeting him.

It was the worst celebrity encounter I have ever had to date.

If you are wondering the point to this whole story, there is none.

I got nothing.

Wrapped up, bow-tied ending with a moral?

Nope.

This is just how Richard Roundtree, AKA ‘Shaft’, told me I had a stinky ass.