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Definately camped out in the ''miscellaneous ramblings'' category of life...
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Thursday, December 21, 2006
Why I Hate Flavor Packs
It all started innocently enough. I was at my doctor’s office to get a pain in my foot checked out. As per the usual quality of HMO’s in these fine United States, I had spent over five minutes just trying to make the appointment, I had to leave work thirty minutes early to get there, I arrived five minutes early, then sat in the waiting room for fifteen minutes, all so I could get about three minutes and twenty-five seconds worth of quality health care from my doc.
I’m kind of excited actually, because at this rate I will earn my “100 Minutes With My Doctor” mug before I reach 70.
So we were chatting away about my foot…
Me: “Doc, it hurts when I walk on it.”
Doc: “Does it hurt when I do this?” (presses hard where it hurts)
Me: “Tell you what, let me put a pair of forceps around your nuts, then repeat that little procedure you just did.”
At the end of my visit, he asked me if anything else was giving me any trouble. In retrospect, this was one of those classic “Shoulda kept my mouth shut” moments.
I casually mentioned that I had seen blood in my crap a couple of times.
I guess this was kind of like when Keanu Reeves in the first Matrix movie mentioned his déjà vu incident. My doc immediately sprung into action, and before I knew it I was all signed up for my first colonoscopy.
Colonoscopy…such an innocent word. Whatever happened to the simple language that is so often ascribed to Native Americans? Why can’t they just call it what it is…Long Hose Inserted Up Ass.
Over the next few weeks I became more familiar with my impending probing. I learned about the procedure itself, including every thing I could expect during the operation. I even had an initial consult at the office of the doctor who would be performing this little diddy on me.
I also learned about Trilyte…with flavor packs. And I quickly became aware of a pattern…no one who has ever had this done really recalls the procedure itself, but they sure remember the alien skank fluid called Trilyte that they had to drink as part of the prep.
Trilyte is another one of those medical misnomers. I have a few other, more appropriate names for the stuff. Like how about:
Bowel Flush
Rotten Egg Surprise
Kolon Klense
Rectum Purge
I don’t fully know what Trilyte is, but I sure know what it does. It came as a powder in a four-liter jug. I mixed it up the night before, along with my flavor pack of choice. I picked Lemon Lime.
When I had my first drink of the bowel wonder juice, I was reminded of an old axiom: shit…sprinkled with a little bit of flavoring…is still shit.
The whole point, of course, is to flush out your digestive tract. There are obvious reasons for this, but in retrospect I think I would have preferred if they could have just stuck a blow hose down my throat and forced my cavities clean that way instead.
It took about 3-4 glasses before I felt the first twinge in my nether regions. The next thing I learned is that you don’t get a whole heck of a lot of time between “twinge” and “sploosh”.
When I felt the first rumblings, I was sitting on the couch. I thought “Wow, that stuff works kind of fast.” Seconds later I was scrambling for the can, almost running in a half-bent position. Along the way I was looking for possible alternative locations to deposit my load, because I figured I wouldn’t make it. One of the larger potted plants in the entryway was barely spared a rather gruesome fate while I briefly admired the broad rim of its container.
That first ‘expulsion’ was a work of art. Trilyte really is some type of wonder fluid that will take whatever is in your bowels, break it down into some type of amorphous goo, and then force it all out at once in a mini enema explosion that could probably clear twenty feet or more if all you did was step outside, bend over, and aim.
I could probably make a small fortune if I set up some big canvases outside as targets. I could create truly unique ‘frescos’. I mean why not? They sell that crap that elephants paint, don’t they?
When I was done, I didn’t know if I should flush my toilet, or administer last rites. Were it not for the holding tank, I’m not sure I would have even recognized it. I could have sworn I saw a blueberry or two in there, which is really impressive since I ate my last one over 24 hours prior. I didn’t want to think about where those little suckers had been hiding all this time.
This pattern repeated for the next several hours. I just set up shop in the bathroom…figured that was easier. If it had gone on much longer I was going to run some cable in there so I could at least watch TV.
Finally, it was time to go.
Now, nothing against those people who see long objects around them and say to themselves, “Hmmmm…I wonder how that would feel stuffed up my coo?”, but I really wasn’t relishing this whole tube-up-my-ass deal. I mean really…is there such a thing as a gay plumber? Because I would think it would be too tempting to be surrounded by all that tubular paraphernalia day in and day out, not too mention those retractable pipe cleaning things. Ew!
So as my way of voicing my protest at this entire event, I downloaded three little “signs” from the Internet. I printed them, then cut each one out. Next, I had Melissa tape each one to my backside, just above the target zone.
The signs said:
“DANGER: Trail Closed”
“STOP: No Spectators Beyond This Point”
And my favorite:
“Do Not Enter: Dogs Running Free Inside”
I’m sure people have done similar things.
When we arrived they did the pre-op check in, and then I was taken to the patient area. I was told to strip down and put on a hospital gown. Somebody has got to invent a better model of the classic hospital gown. Calling these things a gown is like calling a thong a pair of shorts.
After setting up an IV, I was given a briefing by the nurse. One of the things she put a lot of emphasis on was the fact that I would feel very bloated. She kept saying “Don’t be ashamed to blow those bunnies out”, and “When you feel a little gas, just push those little bunnies right outta there.”
Not for anything, but when I’m visiting a doctor’s office to have a tube shoved up my coo for the first time in my life, hearing analogies about the possibility of fuzzy, little bunny rabbits also being stuffed up there doesn’t help. I mean really…is there some line of children’s books out there that explains flatulence by depicting cartoon bunnies popping out of the rear-ends of little kids, while they blush and go ‘Ooopsie’?
I was next taken to the room where the probing would commence. I told the doc that if he finds Hoffa, all he gets is a finders fee.
It was at this point that they gave me the anesthesia, and for the rest of the procedure I was in happy happy unconscious land. As for the whole tube thing, it’s greatly overrated as I was pretty much running on one brain cell, and never felt a thing.
When it was all done and I began to come out of it, it would be a stretch to say that I was ‘conscious’. I don’t remember too many details. My wife was there, and I was still in my gown. Apparently at one point the nurse was telling me to get dressed, and I misinterpreted this to mean lay on my side because they were going in again. Guess I didn’t mind it after all!
We had planned to go to a local Italian place for food afterward, and this is where things got REALLY interesting. You see, one of the things they do when they probe you is to blow air up inside you. Guess this helps expand the colon, and give the doc more room.
Thing is though, if there’s anybody out there on this big planet of ours who really should not be subjected to yet more ‘air’ blown up his ass, it would be me. As Melissa can readily attest, there’s already a healthy volume of air that comes OUT of my ass…there’s really no need to pump in any more to the mix.
So there we are at this little eatery, surrounded by other couples and families. In particular there was a family of four, including two young boys. My state of being is pretty much akin to being three sheets to the wind, and I’m not really aware of too much beyond my own drool.
But, I knew I had a gas problem, and I was ‘sober’ enough to stumble my way to the men’s room, whereupon I entered the one and only stall, and sat down.
Shortly after I sat down, I heard the door open. This was followed by the unmistakable sound of two young boys standing at the urinals.
Being who I am, and recognizing that these fine lads are at an impressionable age, I began to quite deliberately release huge volumes of all that extra air that was stuffed up my ass waiting to come out.
I felt bad for one of these kids because he clearly was having allergy problems, or perhaps he had a cold. I could tell because I literally heard the snot come out his nose as he and his brother tried in vain to control their laughter. Which of course only made them laugh harder, at which point I proceeded to fart harder. They couldn’t take it any more and ran in hysterics back to their Mom and Dad.
Apparently it was quite the show because they were still laughing when I came out. And pointing, of course. It seemed like the whole place was wondering what was so funny, and I just stood there grinning like a drunk fool. It crossed my mind to perhaps do an encore for a wider audience, but I either fell back into my seat, or Melissa kicked me out of sheer embarrassment.
The final phase of my story happened on the way out. After attracting a whole lot of undue attention, and still stumbling, we walked out just as a cop was coming in. Great…just what we need! In my state I’m sure I would have gone out of my way to explain that I wasn’t drunk, but that I had just had a tube stuffed up my ass, and did the nice officer want me to show him for proof?
We managed to make it home, and luckily I went the whole way without another gas attack. Which is a good thing because Melissa probably would have dumped me by the side of the road.
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