Dave Barry, eat your heart out

If you're over fifty, your de rigeur baseline colonoscopy is probably on the books. It is also probable that you laughed and winced through Dave Barry's hilarious and highly accurate account of his own experience. This is fair warning that when you read the following response y0u will do at least one of the following

1) laugh so hard you can't breathe and have to punch your "I'm fallen and can't get up" button repeatedly until help arrives,

2) spray your keyboard, monitor, speakers, wall, photos, papyrus with coffee, &/or

3) blush scarlet and faint at the potty-mouth language.

The Good Ex, one of the funniest writers I know, goes ol' Dave one better--da conzz was awake for his.

And lo, my response:

OMG (snap snap)!!! This is like so freakingly accurate, it should be printed, bound, and entered into the Library of Congress. You'll remember (maybe) that I've had this procedure, and it is exactly as Davey Boy explains it, with one major exception...there's no description here of the Volkswagon that is driven up your ass hole.... Oh, wait. Now I know why...it's because I WAS FREAKING AWAKE THROUGH THE WHOLE DAMN THING!!! Now, knowing that I could have been saved from a lifetime of recall, I'm seriously considering a malpractice suit.

So, after the VW (farfignutten) went in, the nurse basically poured, no... pushed, one of those 32 gallon liters of something milky-looking into me.

Ever feel so full you're sure you're going to throw up if you bend over and get your head below your belt line? Now imagine that feeling going in both directions! But behind that Volkswagon is a fire hose that's at least 18 inches in diameter... and yet... yes, and yet... I had to clench as hard as I've ever clenched anything in my body in my entire life so that I didn't become a horizontal, fifth grader's school volcano project. The term "seepage" is appropriate here, I think. I suspect I wasn't alone in this effort or fear, since I was lying on a steel tray with a full 3 inch wall around the four sides: barely enough volume in this baking pan to hold the "liter" of milk my body consumed... backwards.

You think this is nearly over, don't you. Well not so fast my frisky little used car salesman. Next, the doctor comes in while I'm gritting my teeth and turning beet red in the face...remember the clenching? Now, Doctor Sade proceeds to roll me back and forth...presumably to make a milkshake inside of me (gawd, I'll just bet if Dave Barry knew what he missed while asleep, he'd ask to do it all over again!). I full well expected him to put me on a trampoline next, but instead he put me on TV! There I was, internally exposed, for all to see. Nurse Ratchet, Dr. Sade, and the 2 really cute little interns watching all of this...yeah, I know. I neglected to mention them. I figured the rest was sufficient to describe my eternal embarrassment and degradation...why overdo it? Eh?

But yes, the Pettycoat Junction was there. Actually, now that I remember, I don't think we (author's note: Bonnie and I) were dating yet because their perception of me actually mattered!

So, here I am now, no longer being rolled from side to side, lying flat now, on my right side next, now on my left side, then back to my back... still clenching like I'm holding the fate of the entire world in my... butt.... beautifully projected on a video screen, avoiding eye contact with everybody in the room, and praying... like I've never prayed before or since that I don't go from seepage... to full on colon blow!

Finally, and I don't want to stress the extreme moments when I thought this next moment would never come, the good doctor said "I'm through," and I could go use the rest room. What a freaking euphemism... never gave that one much thought before that day.

The next event is the backing up of the VW Bus... out the sphincter that is now a garage door waiting... no hoping... to slam shut immediately as the vehicle departs. I wait while the "beep, beep, beep" of the backup alarm goes off, and Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum look at each other and giggle under their candy stripes, then POW! Damn... now I'm a wet grenade with the pin pulled, and I've got to get up off this steel trough, do a half gainer over that 18 inch wall, skip delicately toward that "Rest Room" door where relief awaits.

Now I want you to imagine this veeewy, veeewy cawfuwwy... there is approximately 7,236 foot/pounds of internal pressure on my internal digestive track... and the inside of that garage door is doing it's very, very best to stay shut; I can barely crunch or otherwise bring my knees up to my chest, or otherwise get into any position that will allow me to high jump that 42 inch steel wall on my new steel bed; I'm cross-eyed with the pain of trying to stay... clenched; and seepage is beginning to seem like a heaven-sent notion to consider. Nurse Ratchet finally shows some humanity and helps me by taking one hand and pulling me toward her (doesn't she know I'm now a weapon of mass destruction?). I consider, briefly... no, I probably shouldn't go into that. Let's just say I say "thank you," and with an excruciating cocktail of pain and embarrassment, manage my way over that 5 foot wall around that stainless steel horror chamber, and run with nothing in my consciousness except that door... that beautiful, hard wood, oak veneered, magical, "release chamber" door!

That so-called gown they give you to clothe yourself while undergoing procedures, which we all hate more than the concept of a wool thong, has at least one, exceptionally convenient, event-based feature... easy access to the garage door! With one Olympic-class leap, I closed and locked the door, turned and landed butt down on that heavenly ring of brilliant, comforting relief.

Five minutes later, once the Niagara ceased to run, I was able to get up, dress, and exit the building... again without eye contact... with a single human being... for 19 days.

We will never speak of this again! Go forth and prosper.

da conzz