I’m convinced there’s a secret tavern in my digestive tract where the amoebas gather to whoop it up and knock back thimble-sized cups of baijo (a clear Chinese liquor...similar, but more potent than grain alcohol). There the amoebas dance, play mahjong, and tell stories about where they were during the Cultural Revolution.

During the first Flagyl regimen a few weeks back, they hid out in this secret tavern, mocking my juvenile attempt to exile them from my intestines. After all, these amoebas hail from a country that has weathered imperialism, nationalism, Mao’s Great Leap Forward, and the post-Mao period. Their ancestors took part in the Long March. These are no run-of-the-mill amoebas. These guys can kick your ass.

As ten days of dosing passed, the amoebas watched many of their friends die and disappear, mourned their loss, then took cover in the tavern and skillfully let me think I’d been 100% successful in my evacuation. For a few days, I was the one whooping it up...enjoying life without nausea and diarrhea.

But as soon as it was safe again and they’d sobered up from their vacation, those damn amoebas plotted their coup, left the comfort of their hidey-hole, and seized power again....just five or six days after the last dose of Flagyl.

Bastards.

Needless to say, I’m in the middle of my second round of Flagyl...and it sucks.

What does 10 days of Flagyl feel like?

Imagine someone thrusting a wire brush down your esophagus and then scrubbing out your intestines until they are raw and devoid of life.

Nice, huh?