The El Paso Times’ recent article by the Russians on the lady with 6,000 Christmas trees made me realize that a Christmas tree lady’s house probable smells a whole lot better than a cat lady’s house and that, since the article stated a million times that she has a gazillion Christmas trees in her house but only showed us pictures of, like, four, we must not allow that kind of exaggeration in our fake news. So I present to you my first foray into reporting with a probing article that delves deep into something rear and dear to all of us. And is, unfortunately, absolutely not fake news.
Every culture has its Rites of Passage. Young Vanuatu males land dive from large wooden structures with vines on their legs. Matausa boys stick reeds up their noses and pierce their tongues. American pre-teens get wedgies. And middle aged Americans have a four foot, vinyl covered tube with a camera on the end stuck up their butt.
If someone told the 24 year old me that 30 years later I would be knocked out and get a tube shoved up my rectum, the 24 year old me would’ve asked “What’s a rectum?” and then, after told what a rectum is, would’ve replied “EEWWWW!”…Wow…That’s not what I thought I would say. I thought I would say something about being abducted by aliens and being anally probed. Hmmmph.
Well, it turns out that the worst part of the Alien Anal Probe Rite of Passage is not the alien anal probe (medical term, “Colonoscopy”), but the preparation for it on the day before (medical term, “Your Crappiest Day. EVER”).
It began at 8:00 a.m. with black coffee and Ducolax. Ducolax is like a bouncer in your bowels yelling “You don’t gotta go home but you can’t stay here!” He’s not real pushy, though. Turns out that was the highlight of the day. Only clear liquids are allowed, no solid food, but it didn’t dawn on me that Dos Equis is clear until I was almost too weak to reach the fridge. I’d only drunk two when I realized I had to chug four liters of GoLytely in three hours. I’d heard about GoLitely (don’t believe the name) but nothing prepared me for what was about to happen. The goon squad had arrived, killed the bouncer and started throwing everyone out. Forcefully. Over. And over. And over.
I put on running shoes and made a clear path from the living room to the bathroom and left the door open, light on and lid up. After the umpteenth trip I decided to just stop getting up off the toilet. I wished I had spent a couple of more bucks to get The Softest Toilet Paper in the World. Facebook and Instagram had become monotonous, Plants Vs Zombies wasn’t fun anymore and the battery on my phone, my last connection to the outside world, was dying. I started thinking of how I’d redecorate the bathroom and where the TV and refrigerator would go. I wondered how I had become the source of Niagara Falls. I tried to remember what the sky looked like and the smell of flowers. I promised myself that if I ever left the toilet again, I’d tell everyone that I love them. I had serious second thoughts about the whole endeavor and wondered how many people had died on the toilet besides Elvis, when, seconds from a complete mental breakdown, the floodgate closed almost as suddenly as it had opened. Later, I put an oval “4L” sticker on my truck’s back window to prove that I, too, had endured a marathon, of sorts.
The next morning, unable to drink one drop of anything, I entered a packed waiting room half-filled with Designated Drivers, energetic and talkative, flaunting travel mugs and Starbuck’s cups. The rest of the room was filled with The Walking Dead whose sad, lifeless eyes revealed the horror they’d been through. But one day WE will be the designated drivers.
The last thing I remember, I was told “Take EVERYTHING off, put the robe on backwards, don’t bother tying it, and get under the sheets.” That was the only time in my life when I was not thrilled to be told that. Actually, that was the only time I’ve been told that. And I wasn’t thrilled.
I have no memory of what happened next, THANK GOD! I hear that’s pretty common with alien anal probes, though, so I’m pretty sure my doctor’s an alien.
Anyways, now I have to do it again in 3-5 years. If the aliens who abduct people don’t make me drink GoLytely, I’ll be calling them.
[Updated at 15:33 on 17 December 2016.]