rSlash - r/Tifu by Eating Poison Potatoes and Becoming a Poo Cannon

Episode Date: June 25, 2026

0:00 Intro 0:06 Slow cooker 5:11 Sunglasses 8:02 Scammer 9:57 New slang 13:12 Other woman Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Hey, I'm Mike Berenholz. On my new show, Funny You Ask, Trivia starts the conversation, and then things immediately go off the rails. I ask a question. My guests think they know the answer. Sometimes they do. More often, they do not. And then the conversation takes a turn. One trivia question turns into stories about career highs, painful bombs, and behind-the-scenes moments

that probably should have remained private. You'll hear confidence, misplaced confidence, bold guesses, wrong answers, quick laughs, and the slow realization that maybe this was a bad idea to say out loud. If you like smart comedy, sharp conversations, and trivia that exists purely to melt people's brains, this is Funny You Ask with me, Ike Barronholz. Follow Funny You Ask with Ike Barronholz on Spotify, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you listen to podcasts. Every now and then, someone would die. Risk, true stories, no holding back.

They catch my mom poisoning my sister. People say risk makes them feel less alone and more alive. During my time in prison, I discovered a podcast called Risk. That podcast saved my life so many times. Risk. The show where people tell true stories they never thought they dare to share wherever you get your podcasts. Welcome to R slash Today I FFed Up, where O.P turns himself into a human crockpot. Today I effed up by eating dehydrated shredded shredded hash browns as a snack and turned my body into a potato-powered sewage cannon.

This started days ago. I was preparing to make a hash brown-based casserole, a very respectable, very Midwestern dish where the primary ingredients are potatoes, dairy, and good intentions. Unfortunately, I couldn't find the typical frozen shredded hash browns, but what I did find was an industrial food service size container of dehydrated hashbrowns. the kind of container that looks like it belongs in a prepper's bunker. I had recently discovered that these things are actually incredibly handy. You measure out however much you want, add roughly the same amount of hot water, let them rehydrate, and boom, ready to cook hash browns. Shelf stable potato magic, a miracle of modern tuber engineering. Enter my F up.

I decided to taste them dry, and unfortunately they weren't that bad. Like, surprisingly okay. crunchy, starchy, potatoy, somewhere between a potato chip, a hash brown, and astronaut trail mix. They had this satisfying little crunch that made my brain say, This is snack now. I'd barely eaten that day, so after measuring out what I needed for the casserole,

I poured myself a little side snack, maybe about two cups total, maybe more. And then I stood there, casually eating dehydrated, shredded hash browns like there were some sort of artisanal trail mix. All the while, my brain was blocking out a crissue. crucial question. What if the rehydration process happened inside me? Anyway, I made the casserole. Everything seemed fine. I went about my evening. Fast forward to 1 a.m. when I woke up with the

unmistakable feeling that something deep inside me had gone terribly and horribly wrong. I stumbled to the bathroom and unleashed what I can only describe as a gastrointestinal weather event. It was not a normal bathroom trip. It was an evacuation. It was as if my lower intestines had pulled a fire alarm and every resident of Potato Town was leaving through the emergency exits at once. If that was only the case, it would have ended shortly thereafter. It did not. This brown water dam breach was different. In addition to my digestive system running out the back door, I was experiencing the most forceful burps I've ever experienced. They were not normal burps. They were maddened. They were mad. Massive, forceful, swamp gas burps that tasted like starchy regrets.

At first, I had no idea what caused all this. I wondered if one of my kids had brought home a stomach bug. I wondered if I had food poisoning. And still, I'd completely forgotten about my little dehydrated hash brown snack bowl. So there I was, sitting on the toilet, sweating, burping, cramping, gurgling, pure catastrophic butt thunder. No sooner would I get off the toilet that I'd have to turn right back around. I'd make it three steps towards the bed and the rumbling would resume.

Back to the toilet. Again and again and again. Like a waterfall, I continued to empty myself downstream. And then the gas started. Dear God, the gas! The farts stopped being farts and became threats. Every one of them came with risk. I could no longer tell the difference between air, liquid,

or whatever new state of matter my body had invented. So every sensation below the waist required immediate evacuation to the bathroom. This continued through the night and morning. Then through the next day. More burps, more diarrhea. Eight pounds later, I'm now on day five. Day five. My butt is now raw from acidic diarrhea farts and constant wiping.

I've wiped so much that toilet paper now feels like sandpaper. I'm hollow. I'm emotionally changed. more ominous internal bubbling, more burbling, more cheek squeezing to make it through my next obligation, and my belches continue. These are not normal burps. These are massive, forceful, swamp gas burps from the ancient deep, burps with lore, burps that sound like a haunted furnace trying to start, burps that taste the smell of starchy preservatives. So for now, I hydrate, I wait, I pray. And I treat every burp like a prophet,

and every fart like a loaded weapon. Eventually, days later, I remembered the dehydrated hash browns, the innocent bowl of dry shredded potatoes that I ate like chips, the potatoes whose entire preparation method is literally, add hot water and wait. Apparently, I'd skipped the bowl and outsource the rehydration process to my digestive system. Do not do this. Do not eat a cup or more of dehydrated, shredded, shredded potatoes like their potato chips. Do not become a crock pot. Do not become the water. Down to the comments, people are discussing if it's possible that these potatoes are somehow fermenting in O.P.'s gut and O.P. is making butt vodka. Today I effed up by not knowing why we really should wear sunglasses. I grew up in a simple household of six people,

meaning there was never enough money for accessories. There was always food on the table, and we had clothes that covered us, but we didn't have an excess of money, which meant there were parts of social life I never learned growing up. We never had accessories. Not jewelry, not handbags, and no sunglasses. The adults and the family never wore them, so neither did the children. We were taught as a way of curbing expenses that it was just a way of some people showing off their wealth. I accepted this as the only way. This brings me to my adulthood. I've always worked outside in all weather's in England. Lots of wind, lots of rain, and, Believe it or not, lots of sunshine. The work is very physical, and I move around a lot in my day,

lifting and carrying and bending and running. I often wear sunscreen and a hat, but never sunglasses. Over 10 years of this, one day I woke up and I had a bright red inner white in my eye. Lots of red, vainy bits and a yellowed area. There was some pain in the back of my eyeball like strain. I hadn't been to an eye doctor since I was a child, so I thought that this was assigned to get to one sooner rather than later. I visited an optometrist. He did all the examinations, which took about 40 minutes. It was concluded I now had irreparable UV damage to both of my eyes.

It'll look better with some hot compresses and eyed drops, but it will always remain to some extent. Safe to say, I ordered UV 400 polarized sunglasses the same day, and we'll be wearing them henceforth. Sunglasses are like sunscreen. You have to protect your eyes as well as your skin. I have a semi-related story. I've always heard that brown eyes are the most resistant to sunlight, and I don't have brown eyes.

I have green eyes. My wife, as a Chinese person, like most Chinese people, has brown eyes. And it's always the case that whenever we go out, I'm struggling without sunglasses, and she's doing just fine without sunglasses. And I've always wondered, is that because of the brown-eye green-eye thing? Her eyes can't really be that much more resistance to sunlight, can they? I mean, it's just a color. What's the big deal? I thought I was just being sensitive.

But after we got married, we got marriage photographs outside, and we did this in China, where, you know, predictably everyone around was Chinese and had brown eyes. And they kept having us posing for photos facing the sun, and everyone was doing totally fine. Eyes open. No issue whatsoever. I literally could not open my eyes. I tried to crack my eyes open the tiniest little slit. couldn't literally physically my body would not allow me to do it. So that experience made me realize

that I guess people with brown eyes kind of have some some manner of built-in sunglasses. Today I effed up by learning some Hindi and insulting a scam caller. Now I can't use my phone. I've been getting a metric ton of spam calls like many of you. But this week has been absolutely insane and I think it's my fault for kicking the Hornets Nest. I'm up to 70 scam calls a day. I learned some Hindi swear words from a friend and chose to curse one out a few days back when the call list was shorter. It was fun for me baiting scammers. I would get to the part where they questioned me about my Medicare and just unleashed with Madar Chad, bin Chad, etc. Hold on, what did I just say? That means mother epper and sister epper. I don't feel bad about it. They're

scammers. But boy, it was that a mistake. Just a day after I started getting a call, then another, then two more. All with my area code, with different preceding numbers, all spoofed with software, all asking about my Medicare Part A and B. The worst part is that I can't even use a call filter because the numbers are all individually spoofed. So the legwork for blocking all of them would be blocking 99 different combinations of would-be number neighbors. I'm only allowed six prefix to block. Even if that was physically possible, I have quite a contacts with my area code so it would be in vain. I'm at my wits ends, but I guess it goes to show to let scamming scammers lie. I spent all day on the phone with Verizon and they cannot assist me

without me changing my number. I've gotten three calls while typing this. I'm not fully blaming myself as it's not me doing the scamming, but I definitely played a part. Opie, I'm pretty sure you can set your phone to not even ring if the phone doesn't recognize the number. Which is how I've got mindset, because if I don't know who you are, why the hell are you calling me? I don't want to talk to you. Today I effed up by unknowingly telling my 14-year-old students to stop banging each other until I could watch. It finally happened. I had my first devastating, I do not speak middle school moment.

I'm a 30-year-old single woman, and I've always been proud of my ability to make sense of the nonsense that is 11-to-14-year-olds, ever-changing, trending, brain-rock. garbage. Today, I was humbled. It was the last day of state testing, and my group had been trapped together for five straight days of near silent misery. They're genuinely good kids, but after hours of testing, they were restless. A few asked if they could go to the back of the room and crack each other's backs. Not that unusual. I set some boundaries, kept an eye on them, and they were literally just standing back-to-back doing weird little stretches. They don't even try to crack someone of a different gender because they already know that'd be.

know at our school. I needed a break just to move around and splash water in my face after finally peeing for the first time in hours. Students know teachers will do this. One of us will stand in the hall and keep an eye on both of our classes at once since we can't leave them alone. Before stepping out to grab the teacher next door, I casually called over my shoulder. Hey y'all, do me a favor and stop cracking each other until I get back. Every kid froze and stared at me. Naturally, instead of realizing I'd said something horrifying, my sleep-deprived, end of school year brain doubled down. What? I'm not saying you can never do it again. Mrs. So-and-so just can't see you from over here and I'd rather make sure y'all aren't about to do something crazy

or get rowdy and hurt each other. Now they're visibly losing it. I trust y'all, but I'd really prefer to be here to supervise. That was it. The room absolutely exploded. Kids were doubled over, wheezing, running towards me like they'd just witnessed history. I'm horrified and still confused AF, seriously not making the connection. That's a testament to end-of-year teacher brain, lull. Miss, no, that does not mean what you think it means. Cue my soul leaving my body, as I learned that cracking apparently also means banging. They say it to get around censorship online or something, I don't know anymore. So in their minds, I had just very seriously told a room full of 14-year-olds, please stop banging each other until I return, because the other

teacher can't properly supervise. A few sweet girls hugged me while I died inside and tried to explain that technically my statement made sense in context. I'm in my 30s. I thought that I was reasonably current. I may not know every lyric to their mumble rap, but I know enough to survive, or so I thought. There is a period of time, maybe like half a year, where I use TikTok a lot, probably every single day, at least an hour. I got a little bit addicted. I've since completely removed it from my phone. But slang and lingo evolves so quickly in TikTok that I couldn't even keep up with the evolutions of the slang, even with an hour of TikTok every day. I was pretty regularly, like maybe once a week, Googling, what does this phrase mean? What does this slang mean?

Who is this person that people are referencing? I just couldn't keep up. Sometimes it really made me feel like a grandpa. Today I effed up by accidentally becoming the other woman and falling naked in front of his. girlfriend. So I'm a 23-year-old woman and I matched with this guy, Ryan, who's 26 on Hinge. It was normal, nothing weird, we talk for a few days. He's funny, a little flirty, not over the top. He invites me over and I hesitate for like two seconds, then say yes because I make great decisions clearly. I get there, the place is clean, smells good, no obvious red flags. We're talking,

laughing, one thing leads to another and we end up in his bed. At this point, I'm fully under the this man is single, like nothing about him screamed otherwise. Fast forward a bit and we're just tangled up talking nonsense. I'm half under the blanket. Life is whatever. Then I hear their front door open. Not a knock, not a, hey I'm here, text, just keys unlocking. My stomach drops. I look at him and go, Are you expecting someone? And his face just drains and he goes, wait. What do you mean, wait? Before I can process, this girl walks into the room and just stop. and looks at both of us and time literally pauses. I'm sitting there barely covered.

He looks like he's about to evaporate and she just goes, Who's this? I panic instantly and start scrambling to get up because I want out, grabbing the sheet, trying to wrap myself like some emergency burrito. He's talking, saying both our names like that's going to fix anything. Babe, wait, I can explain. Babe, news to me. I'm trying to get off the bed fast and my foot gets caught.

caught in the sheets and instead of leaving like a normal person, I just fall face first completely naked onto the floor. Dead silence. I actually wanted to disappear. The girl stares at me for a second and then goes, are you okay? Which somehow makes it worse. Like, why are you being nice? She literally helps me up. I can't even look at her. I'm clutching the sheet for dear life. He's still in the background saying, it's not what it looks like, which is insane because it's exactly what it looks like. I just kept saying, I didn't know, I didn't know, I swear, like a broken MPC. And she just nods like she believes me more than him, which fair. I grab my clothes as fast as possible, still half wrapped in the sheet because my coordination has left the chat.

I leave without even properly getting dressed, just survival mode. He texts me later a whole paragraph apology, blocked immediately. But I still randomly remember the exact moment that I ate the floor in front of his girlfriend and feel my soul leave my body all over again. O.P., the clue is that the apartment was clean and that it smells good. Clean, I can understand, but smells good? Not to blame you, to be clear, I'm just saying that was the only possible red flag you could have detected. That was our slash today I effed up. And if you like this content, be sure to follow my podcast because I put out new Reddit podcast episodes every single day.