It seemed like a normal Monday night at the frat house. We had just wrapped up our weekly meeting and were gearing up for Monday Night Football on the veranda when our sister sorority, the Kappa Deltas, wandered in with a massive plate of chocolate chip cookies—a special delivery for a couple of our brothers.
Naturally, a few of us thought, “He won’t mind if we eat a few.“
Best. Cookies. Ever. They were still warm, soft as a cloud, and packed with twice the chocolate chips of a normal cookie. Absolute perfection.
We hung out, cracked jokes, and devoured the cookies like we hadn’t seen food in weeks. As halftime rolled around, most of the guys started heading back to their dorms for the night. That’s when I first felt it—a slight grumble in my stomach.
Hmm, maybe I’m just still hungry?
So, obviously, I grabbed three or four more cookies (because they were amazing) and made my way upstairs. After a quick shower, I climbed into my bunk, ready to pass out.
And then—BAM.
It hit me like Arnold Schwarzenegger punching me in the gut.
I shot out of bed and sprinted to the bathroom like the Road Runner fleeing Wile E. Coyote.
And then…
BOOM.
A full-on Category 5 bowel hurricane.
It was like someone had strapped a Tommy gun and a stick of dynamite to my colon and let loose.
I must have blacked out, because when the storm finally subsided, I was drenched in sweat, gripping the sink, staring at my ghostly reflection in the mirror, wondering, What the hell just happened to me?
Maybe it was the cafeteria food? Some bad chicken? Yeah, that had to be it.
I flushed, splashed some water on my face, and waddled back to my bunk, completely drained.
Fifteen minutes later…
A sharp pain in my gut jolted me awake.
Oh no. Here we go again.
Niagara Falls, Round Two.
This cycle repeated every fifteen minutes.
By 3 AM, I had given up on making it back to my bed and just laid down on the disgusting frat house bathroom floor—because at least that way, I wouldn’t have to run as far. My sphincter was in shambles, my butt felt like it had been sanded down with a belt sander, and I was dangerously close to waking up a friend to drive me to the hospital.
Then, suddenly—I wake up.
It’s 10:30 AM. I’ve missed my first class and I’m already late for my second. Still feeling a little shaky, I grab a granola bar, waddle out the door, and pray my intestines don’t betray me.
By the afternoon, I feel mostly normal, but I’m very cautious about food choices. As I sit around telling my friends about my near-death experience, one of them interrupts me.
“Wait… how many of those cookies did you eat last night?”
“Uh, I don’t know… six or seven? Why?”
His face drops.
“Bro… those cookies were a prank. The girls loaded them with Ex-Lax for Dave and Steve—but they screwed up the dosage and put in three times the recommended amount.”
“Dude… you probably should have gone to the hospital.”
And that’s the story of how I almost died from weaponized laxative cookies.