This past week, two brave souls began a quest. A quest to transform their bodies into holy temples of lust and desire before bikini season. To accomplish this feat, they began the Beyonce-endorsed MASTER CLEANSE diet, a crash diet in which you consume nothing but a mixture of lemon juice, cayenne pepper and maple syrup for ten full days. Here is their story:
After eating like a couple of pregnant Chris Christies the night before, we awoke bright and early to begin our cleanse. Our goal was simple and attainable:
To completely morph our bodies into the actual Khloe Kardashian. To become her. To rule the world.
We began with the saltwater flush. This is when you drink a liter of extremely salty, warm water to kickstart your bowels. After, it proceeds to come out of your butt like a fire hose. We are aroused just thinking about it.
The next thing we knew we were on our respective toilets. Wailing, crying out for help, asking God to strike us down, we prayed that the pain would end. We couldn’t help but wish we had invested in a couple’s toilet, but alas, the $1400 price tag was just a smidge over our budget, given our status as unemployed garbage-humans.
When we finally mustered up the energy to drag our decrepit bodies out of the bathroom, it was time to make our first juice. We quietly sobbed as we squeezed our lemons into cups, mixing in the fiery cayenne, maple syrup, and our remaining self-respect.
We shamefully carried bottles of what could only be described as “the devil’s blazing urine” as we walked around campus. Little did our peers know, we were harboring a fire in our bowels that could erupt at any moment. We didn’t know how we were going to keep this up for the remaining days, but we knew we would persevere.
Throughout the day, we kept each other going with motivational texts:
Everything started to feel normal again, but then the second wave came. Just when we thought there was nothing left in us, our bodies proved us wrong. Stranded in separate campus bathrooms, we quietly weeped while reading The Flushington Post over and over again. How did we get here? Why were our bodies attacking us? When would death come?
What poor soul would discover our lifeless bodies, rotting and emaciated, crouched over a Hurst Hall toilet with our pants around our ankles?
Later that afternoon, when we had managed to make the grueling trek from campus to the Berkshire apartment complex without giving up and laying our bodies down to perish, we feasted on our delicious liquid dinner while bawling at Olive Garden commercials. What we would have given for just a bite of a single ravioli. Like Olive Garden’s famous breadstick baskets, this cleanse felt endless and as if it was ravaging our insides.
After a few more glasses of Lucifer’s flaming nectar, we rested in our beds, ready to take on the next day. While it had been hard, we felt prepared for the days to come, ready to continue the challenge and cleanse our bodies of toxins.