Without doubt, this.

After knee surgery in high school, my pain meds stopped me up. My dear beloved Momma said a “dose of the salts” was what I needed. She administered said dosage and sent me on my way with one of my friends and my girlfriend at that time. (Not the current Mrs M. who ultimately prevailed over the then stiff competition.)

The “salts” took effect while we were walking through the mall out in New Orleans East.

I began sweating, my insides threatening to turn themselves inside out exiting my anus. Noises audible to my companions emanated from deep within my bowels. I hastily made my excuses and headed hobbling on crutches at breakneck speeds towards the nearest public restrooms which were near the skating rink or food court.

It was Christmas break and the mall was packed with shoppers and particularly with ill mannered youths who apparently had gleefully peed on everything in the restroom including the toilet tissue. My crutches nearly slipped from under me on the wet floor tile.

Plan B. Hustle out, moving as quickly as a man on crutches and in the throes of violent cramping and increasingly loud flatulence can move and pass my friend and girlfriend coming from the opposite direction.
“Bathrooms filthy. D.H. Holmes bathroom. Meet me there.”

A profusely sweating man, trailing clouds of noxious flatulence quickly ambulated his way awkwardly in a cantilevered, tripod-like manner towards the bathroom paradise he imagined D.H Holmes to be, desperately yet deftly avoiding mall denizens and Christmas shoppers, each sidestep and juke depleting his strength and costing him dearly in his increasingly strenuous efforts to avoid publicly soiling himself and several square yards of mall territory in what was promising to become a tidal wave of effluence born of a week’s worth of good eating and robust living.

First floor was ablaze with gleaming holiday decorations and displays. The fragrance counters were swamped with shoppers, but a clear path was available to the escalator going to the second floor and from there to the second floor offices and the clean and commodious restrooms that awaited nearby. Blessed relief.

As I closed on the door I realized I was perhaps a split second too late arriving and sensed a relaxation of my heretofore tightly clamped anus. To prepare for the possibility, I dropped my crutches, unbuckled my belt and lowered my trousers, balanced on my recently surgically repaired knee and kicked open the door. Shifting to the good knee I hopped forward lowering my trousers to my knees, slid sideways left and threw myself backwards into the first stall onto the commode. I was pale, sweat drenched and groaning great noises of relief.

Opening my eyes to get my bearings and to close the stall door I noticed him. Directly across from me, an employee, combing his hair, staring at me in the long mirror above the wash basins-he made no sound, showed no emotion, did not take his eyes off of me, and slowly and with great precision pocketed his comb, turned crisply and walked stiffly out the door.

So, yes, epsom salts do work. Very well.

If you try it and have a similar story to tell, thank my dear late Mom and remember her for me.