Google Translate: My Sick Note


I had to run an inadvisable amount for someone who has refused to exercise since a brief stint of deep-water Aquafit two years ago.

You’d better believe I pumped my arms to the smooth smooth hits of 2004 while Gladys, Barb, and Rhonda talked shit behind me. YOU’D BETTER BELIEVE IT. Photo credit:

And in the course of this running, I shook myself up. I shook myself up like a 2-Litre bottle of Coke that rolled around the trunk of your car on the ride over to the summer BBQ and subsequently exploded all over your Uncle Bob’s festive Hawaiian shirt.


So, I’m sitting on the bus with my hands folded together like I’m praying and I’m breathing like someone who hasn’t exercised since a brief stint of deep-water Aquafit two years ago when it hits.

The Rumble.

I’m not sure if you’re familiar with The Rumble. Maybe you are. Maybe you had bad shellfish on that vacation with your parents when you were thirteen. Maybe you’ve made the ill-advised decision to eat McDonalds french fries at 3:30 AM after exclusively consuming Vodka Cranberries for five hours. I DON’T KNOW. I DON’T KNOW YOUR LIFE.

What I do know is that I was sitting on the lower deck of a double-decker bus in the middle of Scotland on my way to work when my large intestine shoved the little Inside Out characters inside my brain away from their control console and bellowed: THIS IS NOT RIGHT.

Insert picture of my colon ripping out its moustache like Uncle Vernon for 90% of the first Harry Potter book. Photo credit:

I tried to think of waterfalls and leaves floating by on a stream. I tried to focus on how the palms of my hands felt, my heels, my earlobes. I tried to listen to the sounds of the traffic and, through the car horns and the engines, the sounds of birds.


But, when my large intestine is leaning on the “THIS IS NOT A DRILL” button (the one that sets off sirens in my ears and sweat behind my knees and the distinct feeling that everyone is watching me), I am not a quiet country road; I am rush hour. I am not a gently-flowing stream; I am rapids.

So when the bus stopped, I barrelled out. And when my internal public bathroom radar (the one installed in every person with an irritable bowel) reminded me that there was a run-down shopping centre near by, I ran.

I ran like Oprah running across hot coals. Photo credit:

I ran through a quiet bike path and a sleepy parking lot and long stretch of sad stores decorated with sale signs and tinsel.

I ran to a public bathroom with a flickering fluorescent light that turned everything green and a sound system that was inexplicably playing the Scissor Sisters’ “I Don’t Feel Like Dancing.”

I ran.

And here I will stay: listening to the Scissor Sisters and frightening small children until my large intestine is satisfied that I will never run for a bus ever again.






3 thoughts on “Google Translate: My Sick Note

  1. I can relate a bit to this RG. I get car sick very easily and have been known to throw open the door of a moving vehicle in desperate moments. I hope you are feeling better.

    Liked by 1 person

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