In Through the Out Door
(Warning: Adult Material.)
As written for Seamus Purdy, a stand-up comedian character in one of my works.
I’d been having a little agita. That’s a great word. Agita. It comes from the Italian root that means “You make-a me so upset-a that my stomach it hurts.” So I went to an Astroenterologist. I know, I know. There’s a G in there. Like, “Gee, I didn’t know you were going to stick a camera up my ass.” And, “Gee, can I have that on a DVD?”
So, the Astroenterologist recommends an endoscopy and a colonoscopy. Both ends to the middle. Anybody ever have a colonoscopy? (so you know!) The doctor sends me home with a shopping list for “Prep.” It makes me wonder what the hell goes on at those rich-kid Prep Schools. The shopping list consisted of Gatorade and two different kinds of laxatives. A few hours before the prep was to begin, I had a last meal. I ate like I was about to walk the Green Mile and it would be the last meal of my life. There were four courses, one for each ventricle of my heart. And then, the nervous waiting.
I kept watching the clock. Out of pride, I wanted to make sure that I was cleaned out completely, ‘cause the people doing this heinous procedure might talk. At the designated hour, I took laxative number one. Four tablets, all at once. Nothing happened. A few hours later, I mixed the devil-powder with the Gatorade. I don’t know what’s in it, but I’m sure that when you mix part A with part B, well, that’s where NASA got the idea for their rocket fuel. Artemis II, T-minus-zero… liftoff!
In the words of my friend, the late, great John Pinette, it was like a Japanese bullet train straight to my colon. And every time I thought it was safe to resume any ordinary activity (i.e., leaving the bathroom), another train pulled into the station.
All I could think of was the words of the great philosopher, Roseanne Rosanadana. “Did that come out of me?”
Other thoughts that filled my head: “Don’t sit on the good furniture.” “I’m going to need a new toilet.” “Have plumbers ever thought to use this shit on a clogged drain?”
Best of all, they tell you to save half of the devil-powder and Gatorade for the morning of the rectal invasion. I’m quaffing the yellow liquid on schedule, imagining that it is a 1945 Mouton Rothschild Bordeaux. Not convincingly, I might add. I live across the street from a coffee shop, and I saw a gorgeous redhead leaving with a tray of coffee. I didn’t even think about the woman. All I thought was “Wow, I really want a cup of coffee.” But no! Respect for the hospital workers!
A friend drove me to the hospital and we walked through the maze of corridors until we found the correct reception desk. I sat in the waiting room, akin to what I imagine Purgatory will be like. Finally, the doors open and the nurse calls my name and she ushers me to a room with big shower curtains and tells me to strip down, put the gown on, but you can leave your socks on if you like. Again, probably what Purgatory is like. Thinking of others, I left the socks on, figuring that if I perished I might save the mortician a few minutes. The nurse plastered some electrodes on my chest and sides in what seemed to be a random configuration as she made a joke about a free waxing. Another nurse connected me to an IV. She told me I could use my phone if I wanted, then left. It could have been four minutes, or forty. I’m not sure. But a guy came in wearing navy blue scrubs and track shoes.
“Are you the DoorDash guy? What took you so long?” I asked.
He looked puzzled. “Uh, I’m the anesthesiologist.”
Oh.
Little did I know that an anesthesiologist is even better than a DoorDash guy. Propofol, the Michael Jackson relaxant of choice, ah, yes! It has a marvelous effect of making the ten seconds you remember the best ten seconds of your life.
Then, they wheeled me off to the Neverland Ranch – well, they didn’t call it that. They said it was the O-R. I honestly don’t remember any of it. I regained consciousness and they gave me juice as a consolation prize and sent me out the door with my friend who was driving. At home, I made a cheeseburger. It didn’t feel so good. What felt good was sleep.
Three days have passed since then. No card. No phone call. No flowers. I guess I’ll get over it in time. In all seriousness, get a colonoscopy if you’re over fifty. You never know what they’ll find up there.