Journey To the Center of My Bowels

 NOTE:  The following is a repost.  While I tried to avoid foisting reruns on the two of you (okay, that's that's a lie), occasionally something strikes me as funny enough to merit another "Look-See" (incidentally, that phrase will pop up again).  So, without further adieu... 

    A long time ago, in a medical clinic far away*…

    One of the benefits of turning 50 was that, besides grey hair sprouting from my nose, needing Pepsi to burp, and developing toenail fungus known as “Old Man Toe,” I got a chance to feel what it’s like to spend some time in a Turkish prison.

I don't care if teenagers make fun of me. 
The way I see it, I'm doing them a kindness.

    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: Told ya).

Not to be confused with "Entenmannology," or "Study of Coffee Cakes."

    As befits my advancing years, I was treated to the full Monty (coincidentally, the doctor’s actual name) a few years ago. 

Coincidentally, the doctor's name

  I feel sorry for the poor guys on Obamacare.  They only get a “semicolonoscopy.” 

    The day before, I was directed to drink a couple bottles of what’s called Fleet Phospho Soda.  This, once again, is a Greek term meaning “Ass Rocket Fuel.”  Boy, howdy, does that stuff work!  I haven’t felt that emotionally attached to my lavatorial facilities since my surgery in 1988 (some things I'll leave to your imagination).

    Anyway, I felt like one of those water rockets we bought as kids.  Remember those?  

You know the kind I mean.

    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 Miami Vice wardrobe.

    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.

Like this one

    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.

    Finally, my wife drove me to the rather unfortunately named “Dr. Mengele Center for Endoscopic Surgery-Sponsored by BEANO!”

    After checking in, I was wheeled into the prep room where I had to disrobe and 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 the 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.” 

    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.

    I was told my ass would be filled with air and that I was encouraged to fart when I was done.

Not wanting to waste it, though, I'm going to wait until church
and then make a joyful noise unto the Lord!

"You ever see him in Church?"
"Not since the 70's, no."
"Just as well, since he plans on farting."
"Then he can sit in his own pew."

    As they wheeled me into the operating room, I reminded them if they found any cave paintings they were the property of 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 want.  I wish I hadn’t told them that though.

Because I'm afraid I'm going to be on You Tube.
With chimps.

      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).

"That's right, Sean.  We plan to enter Mr. Lynch's ass as evidence
 if we decide to prosecute the notorious Union Boss.  Or not.  Who knows?"

    So, that’s my story.  As you can see, everything went well for the most part.  Even better, I don’t have to lick the paper anymore.

    But, I’ll never look at my garden hose the same way again.

*my first colonoscopy was in Pennsylvania.  I am now in Virginia.  My butt is still the same, though.