John Czechs Into a Hospital

Ah, Wednesday! If my trip hadn’t yet had an official beginning, it finally got one am Mittwoch. The first orientation session was that morning, followed by another on Thursday.
Although it was great to finally meet my fellow exchange students, this morning really wasn’t the best morning, seeing as I had gotten quite drunk at a club the night before. Frailty, thy name is vodka and Red Bull. I was hungover somethin’ fierce.
I sat in the room with the same feelings any new student in a room full of new students might; I looked around excitedly at my fellow students, introducing myself to those around me and trying to figure out with whom I might hang out. Of course, I had half an ear perked to the cute Polish woman who was conducting the info session; seriously, she had that inexplicable Eastern European mystique. And then came a welling from the depths of my loins. Earlier, I felt hungover; now, I felt like Nagasaki was happening in my colon. Now, I had one of three options (which weren’t really options, being that whatever was going to happen wouldn’t be my choice): 1) puke, 2) soil myself, or 3) let off the world’s single foulest cloud of gas. None of these really felt like winners.
“Are you ok?” said a soft voice next to me. I must have had a look of intense fear upon my countenance. I turn to see not one, but two pretty faces looking at me with concern.
“Of course,” I assure them, despite the fact that I’ve never told a bigger lie. Seriously, my intestines are in a boxing match with my stomach. My brain was the ref, but the two contenders turned on him a long time ago, and it’s now turned into a MMA cage match with no rules. Folding chairs and shanks are being used shamelessly. I don’t know if ever a person vomited and shat himself simultaneously, but it certainly seemed a viable possibility. I figure that maybe talking to these two girls might distract me from my agony, and the Pollack Penelope has paused here speech to look through some papers, so I drum up a little conversation. Without moving too much, I introduce myself and shake their hands, hoping to God neither of them pulls my finger in the process. Hurdle #1 cleared here.
As I talk to them, I find out they’re both Czech, both here studying international business and German, and both living in Nuremberg. I’m being me, making corny jokes and laughing more at myself than they probably are, but the conversation is flowing well. While all this is happening, I notice my pain fading. It’s like God is pumping the gas right out through his Almighty Straw. I think it may have just gotten a lot smellier in Heaven, but I am as appreciative of this as I am the Creation, and God, if you're reading, I'm sorry for the odor, but you did invent the fart, am I right?
Anyway, when the session continues and we can no longer speak, everything wells up again as it was before. I begin whispering with the American guy next to me, but this does nothing. In desperation, I turn back to the girls and make a bad joke about something the Warsaw Wonder Woman has just said; I get soft chuckle, and the release returns. 'How strange,' I think, but I don’t care; I’ll do anything to not to feel like a skin bag full of barf and farts. I continue to survive this way, and finally, the session ends. Slowly, I walk out the door (so as not to unsettle anything that had been painstakingly tamed throughout the previous hour) with a sense of pride at having met two gorgeous girls and having wrangled my bodily functions.
I’ll end the story with a scientific conclusion, and that is this: never underestimate the healing power of Czech women. Their very presence can be the difference between life and death, as illustrated here. These angels from Prague saved me from death by flatulence. I’ll begin writing my article for American medical journals soon, just wait and see.
More stories soon; a few blog worthy misadventures have occurred within the last few days, so I’m a little backed up, but there are certainly more nuggets of joy to be extracted from this journey.