|It's how I roll, yo.|
I know, I know...please try to rein in your disappointment. No, instead of my slog through world history (which will probably take years. Much like world history itself. Isn't that weird?), I've decided to repost something from the old Penwasser Place.
The vast majority of you have seen this, but I plan on also sending it to Facebook, for those who who haven't. I'm especially thinking about a particular friend who posted a story very similar to this last week.
I promised her that I would return fire with fire.
Although fire had nothing to do with this story...
Journey to the Center of my Bowels
A long time ago, in a medical clinic not so far away…
One of the benefits of turning 50 was that, besides grey hair sprouting from my nose, needing Pepsi to burp, and developing nail fungus also known as “Old Man Toe,” I got a chance to feel what it’s like to spend time in a Turkish prison.
The word “colonoscopy” is Greek in origin. Its entomology
(no, wait a
minute, that’s the "study of insects." I meant ‘etymology’-I can never get those
straight) derives from “colonos” which means “butt” and “scopy” which means “look
see.” (NOTE: may not be true).
|Not to be confused with "Entenmannology."|
Or "Study of Breakfast Foods."
As befit my advancing years, I was treated to the full Monty (coincidentally, the doctor’s actual name) a few years ago. I feel sorry for the poor guys on a limited budget. They can only afford a “semicolonoscopy.”
The day before, I was directed to drink a couple bottles of what’s called Fleet Phospho Soda. Boy, howdy, does that stuff work! I haven’t felt that emotionally attached to my lavatorial facilities since my surgery in 1988 (I'll just leave that to your imagination).
|Yeah. A lot like that.|
Anyway, I felt like one of those water rockets we bought as kids. Remember those? You know, the kind you pump up with water until, when you can no longer pump them up, you just pop the cork and let ‘em fly?
I could never predict when it was time for, uh, "Old Faithful" to erupt (so to speak). Needless to say, I left my white pants in the closet with the rest of my
Vice wardrobe. Miami
Falling asleep was an adventure. Luckily for me (and my terrified wife), my own personal levees weren’t breached during the night. Although, by the time I woke up, I was so full that I felt like a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade balloon (I don’t know which one, but I’ll bet it wasn't one of the popular ones).
Throughout the day, I had to fast (which was pretty easy since I’m ‘half-fast’, anyway). Although I couldn’t stray too far from my bathroom because, whenever I had to, uh, you know, I had to, uh, you know. Thank goodness I had plenty to read. Plus, that handheld Yahtzee was a godsend.
No one will ever want to use it again, though.
I grew so famished throughout the day that I started licking the Sunday paper ads for Burger King.
|I think he kind of dug it, though.|
Finally, my wife drove me to the rather unfortunately
|He made me a little nervous. |
After checking in, I was escorted into the prep room. Once I disrobed, I was asked if I had gone to the bathroom. Ya know, not for nothin’, wouldn’t it have been better to ask before I took my clothes off? That way, if I hadn’t used the bathroom, I wouldn’t have had to parade naked through a mortified waiting room.
Oh, and incidentally, I thought it was odd that it was the janitor who asked me to disrobe.
The nurse (recently laid off from Verizon) explained what was going to happen. My eyes grew wide when she showed me a picture of the “instrument.”
But far, far worse.
Good grief and all that's holy, they were going to shove a piece of PVC pipe so far up the exit that I was going to be a piñata for a sadist or, at the very least, a Popeye Lawn sprinkler.
I was told I would be filled with air and that I was encouraged to "expel" that air when I was done (not wanting to waste it, I’m going to wait until church and then make a joyful noise unto the Lord!).
As they wheeled me into the operating room, I reminded them if they found any cave paintings they should send them to the Smithsonian Institution.
I was told I’d be so pumped full of drugs, I wouldn’t feel a
thing. I informed the “Butt
People” that, since that was the case, they could do whatever they wanted. I wish I hadn’t told them that though. Because I think I’m going to be on You Tube. With a monkey.
|"Hey, Mr. Jinkies needed the money."|
Luckily, everything turned out great. They did find a polyp (and Jimmy Hoffa) which they cut out. I plan on having it bronzed (the polyp, not Jimmy Hoffa).
So, that’s my story. Rest assured, everything went well for the most part. I have trust issues now, though. Still, it's a relief to not have to lick the paper anymore.
But, I’ll never look at my garden hose the same way again.