Where The Sun Don’t Shine
Up The Down Staircase
The Long And Winding Road
Landing On Uranus
Aw Chute
Bottoms Up
I chose Prep school because it focuses on what, contrary to what you may think, is absolutely the worst part of the colonoscopy “journey.”
At the urging of my doctor, last week I treated myself to this diagnostic procedure. For you lucky bastards unfamiliar with it, a colonoscopy is a medical procedure where a doctor, usually a gastroenterologist (PRO TIP: never a guy in a van), inserts a long, flexible tube called a colonoscope into the rectum.
Which reminds me of a joke.
The elementary school teacher was taking roll call. “Johnny?” “Here.” “Steven?” “Here.” “Billy?” Nothing. “Billy?” Still nothing. The teacher says, “Does anyone know where Billy is?” Mikey raises his hand and says, “Billy had an accident. He was climbing one of those iron fences with the pointy tops, and he slipped. One of the pointy things went right up his asshole. The teacher said, “Michael, we don’t say asshole, we say rectum.” And Mikey says, “Rectum?! Damn near killed ‘em!”
Never gets old.
Where was I? Oh, right. So anyway, a tiny video camera at the tip of the colonoscope lets the doctor see the inside of the entire colon. And according to the twice-impeached, currently indicted, stable genius orange mango, when applied this way the camera light also cures covid.
So, win-win.
The reason the procedure is done is to check for things—none of which I had—like polyps, abnormal tissue, blockages and causes of rectal bleeding, chronic diarrhea and other intestinal problems.
In specialized GOP colonoscopies they also look for brains, hidden documents and Lindsey Graham.
Now for the prep part of our show. Two days before the procedure, I had to go on a soft diet. Then the day before, I was on a liquid diet. On Colonoscopy Eve, I celebrated in the traditional way by drinking eight ounces of a powerful laxative mixed with Gatorade every fifteen minutes until I'd had a total of forty-eight ounces.
Then, there was nothing to do but have a seat in the library and wait for the show to start.
The next morning the wife drove me to the surgical center to check in at 8:30 for a 9:15 reservation. I was done and on my way home by 10:45, still in my propofol haze and craving In-N-Out.
While it's not the most pleasant way to spend a morning, I file it under things could've been a lot worse. So now you know more about me than you probably wanted to, but at least you'll know what to expect should you ever have to roll on your left side and count backwards from a hundred. I mean for medical reasons.
That's it. And of course, there's only one way to wrap up this post.
The end.
