My Rear End is Imperfect and Needs Medical Attention

I am getting a colonoscopy.

If I rated medical procedures based on hilarity, colonoscopies would make my top ten. Not as funny as calf implants for dudes or ladies getting liposuction on their toes, but close.

“So, what’s the deal with my b-hole, doctor?”

The proctologist had just spent a good four minutes rooting around my fanny with several instruments. One of which was his finger. After he took my dignity with his digit, he announced that additional tools were necessary. He said not to look his way as he reached into a drawer. But I couldn’t help myself. A metal, cone-shaped object appeared at my periphery. This was immediately jammed into my already-aching butt. Then I heard a sound of what I assumed what a mallet hitting the cone. Yes, that must have been a mallet it as I felt the tool slam further into me.

It was at this point I started whimpering. I gripped the rails of the gurney and sweat dripped from my face onto the paper gown I had been assigned. I tried to soothe myself with jokes about how ridiculous this whole thing was, because it was. But the reality was that it just plain hurt. He stop pounding my butt for a moment and asked, “Where does it hurt?”

I didn’t have a good answer so I just said, “I don’t know!” He put his head down and re-entered the mine shaft. Eventually, it was over.

Afterwards he assured me that even if I had been a fellow who enjoyed that sort of thing, I wouldn’t have enjoyed what had just happened.

“You have an incredibly strong muscle there. It’s solid and huge. Big mass. Big mass.”

I didn’t know how to process this information so I slightly turned my head to the side like a dog does when you call out his name.

“You were spasming the whole time I was in there. That’s why it hurt.”

Why was I spending a Thursday morning in a doctor’s office getting touched in my special place? It’s actually nothing serious. Well, most likely, it’s nothing serious. This was a proactive appointment I made almost more as a goof. The reason is simple – it takes me a long time to made doody.

I don’t have constipation or hemorrhoids or any of that nonsense. No, I just sit on the toilet waiting and waiting until my butthole decides to sing the chorus of All Shall Be Released. I don’t even push or anything. And eventually it happens. The process on average is probably 10-15 minutes. It doesn’t hurt. It’s just boring.

A month ago I decided to see a gastroenterologist who said, “You’re probably fine, but these colorectal surgeons upstairs are really good. You should make an appointment.”

So there I was, a grown man who had just been fingered and was now being cleaned up with baby wipes by a proctologist. I don’t know what happened but I might have made earth right on his hand during the exam. It felt like I did. I sat up but was woozy. He went to get the surgeon and let me catch my breath.

The surgeon came in laughing. He praised my muscled sphincter.

By the way, why does the only muscled part of my body have to be in my ass? God couldn’t have sired me with six-pack abs? What a dick!

He said that it didn’t seem like I had cancer or Crohn’s or colitis or anything serious. However, it was wise to rule that stuff out. He then asked me if I had even had a colonoscopy.

“No, as I’m not 84 years old.”

That got both doctors laughing and the surgeon said, “It’s pretty wild. You’re going to have a bad night before I go in there.”

Yes, I have already watched this scene play out in many comedies. The main character comes home from work and his wife reminds him they have tickets to the symphony. He had forgotten about the concert, but his colonoscopy is the next morning and he drinks the prescribed laxative. Smash-cut to him defecating in a tuba he finds backstage because the theatre bathrooms are out of order.

My colonoscopy is scheduled in a month. They wrote me a prescription for a jug of laxative. It’s enormous and depressing. Plus, that jug is unmistakable in the medical community. It’s only used for one thing – this. I know the pharmacist had to be thinking, “Man, what’s going on with D.J.’s b-hole? Trouble’s a brewin’!”

The surgeon is going to stick a couple of cameras up there for 20 minutes. This terrifies me. I hope they knock me out. I don’t drink or do drugs but I’m definitely going to buy a handful of horse tranquilizers from a guy in a parking lot just in case the nurse doesn’t give me the laughing gas.

Damn – now I have to find a guy who sells horse tranquilizers. If you know someone, message me. I have cash.