Ass Exam 102: Chief Endures A Butt Scope
I was in a somewhat grumpy mood as I walked groggily into the living room on Thursday morning. I hadn't eaten for a few days, sheer torture for a fat man who is something of a gourmand. My wife had fed the cats. They all had their fuzzy little heads thrust into bowls of some kind of kitty kibbles and were making satisfied crunching sounds. "I am much larger than they are," I mused, "and could easily overpower them and eat their breakfast." The only thing that prevented me from taking that course of action was the knowledge that, if I did, I would have to repeat the horror of the colon cleanse required of me before a colonoscopy. I would just have to man up and hope I didn't fall out from the ravages of starvation.
It had all started on a Monday. I had risen from my comfortable bed and breakfasted on sausage, eggs, toast, and jam. This was to be my last solid food until I underwent the garden hose up the tuchus on Wednesday morning. The rest of Monday and all day Tuesday I was to get my sustenance from an all-liquid diet. For those of you who have never been on a liquid diet, the heartiest thing you are allowed to eat is consomme, which is something like water but with less flavor. For dessert you can have Jello, but it can't be red. Apple juice is permitted, but orange juice isn't. My stomach was pretty empty Tuesday evening when it was finally time to purge the old gastrointestinal tract of any residual food.
Dutifully, I got the jug of GoLYTELY out of the fridge. It contained approximately 100 gallons and I was supposed to drink half to two-thirds of it. I poured ten-ounce portions into a glass, tried to imagine I was drinking draft at the New Tokyo Beer Hall, and started gagging it down. Actually, the taste wasn't that bad and reminded me of the sulfur water well I had used for several years when I lived in rural Tennessee. I was told that I would start having watery bowel movements about an hour afterward. This was an understatement.
I made several trips to the toilet, and if my commode had been equipped with a seat belt I would have buckled up, as I was almost lifted into the air several times from the force of the blasts coming from my anus. Finally, I felt purged enough to retire for the evening with the fervent prayer that I not be rudely awakened by liquid squirting from my butt-hole.
Wednesday morning I was up early, as I had been instructed to drink the remaining 30 or so gallons of GoLYTELY between the hours of 5 a.m. and 7 a.m. Once again my bathroom was transformed into Squirt City. I was at the Veterans Hospital at 10:30 a.m. and ready for my procedure, which was scheduled for 11:00. Unfortunately, I was told that two techs had called in that day, leaving the crew running two hours behind schedule.
I sat in the waiting room for several hours and was finally ushered into an exam room at about 2:30 p.m.. My stomach was still a little gurgly, and I couldn't help but wonder what the odds were of spraying something out my ass when it and the colonscope were introduced. Much to my horror, when the doctor showed up, she was young and attractive ... and did I say she was a she? Spraying shit on someone who looked like Ernest Borgnine was one thing, but squirting Heather Locklear was a horse of a different color. What would the correct protocol be in such a situation? Would a sincere apology be sufficient, or would I need to buy her a box of chocolates or some flowers? I quickly ruled out the chocolates, for they would probably only remind her of the incident.
I was soon prepped and sedated slightly. I suffer from sleep apnea so the sedation was very light; the butt crew didn't want me to stop breathing during the procedure. (I echoed this sentiment and said I also preferred to continue breathing.) The colonscope was greased and stuffed up my ass, and a horrid discovery was made: the GoLYTELY had not done its work, and there was still poo in my poop chute. It seems that diabetics have a slower rate of peristalsis than others, so I was given another jug of GoLYTELY, sent home with instructions to drink it all that evening, and told to return the next day. I was to endure another day without noms.
The only thing I ingested on Wednesday that resembled food in any way was a ten-ounce glass of apple juice ... the juice and another tanker truck of GoLYTELY; however,I felt confident that my insides would be pristine for Thursday's hosepipe invasion.
I was disappointed that Heather Locklear was not the physician performing the procedure on Thursday. At the risk of sounding like a pervert, having things stuck up my butt by Heather is a more pleasant experience--or at least a less unpleasant experience--than having the procedure done by a man.
My Thursday doctor looked like Jonathan Winters and the procedure was slightly uncomfortable, thanks to the light level of sedation used. But no polyps were found, and my shitter is not scheduled for another invasion for five more years. I can hardly wait.