Tomorrow is going to be a crappy day.


I don’t mean to whine. Now that I’ve eclipsed the half-century mark, I’ve been told it’s time for the good ole ass scope. Now, I can either have a tube and camera shoved up me (without proper foreplay, I presume), or I can do this new thing called a virtual colonoscopy. Basically, that option is kind of like sixth grade when I got to feel up the outside and imagine what was on the inside. This procedure involves a machine similar to an MRI machine whirring and buzzing circles around my butt why searching for abnormalities.

It sounds a whole lot better than garden hose up my ass. I opt for this.

Unfortunately, the preparation for the non-invasive procedure is no different than the poop scope. I must spend all day tomorrow purging everything, lest the imagery is distorted by cream cheese cupcakes, bacon, or Pad Thai. I’m to eat nothing and drink only clear liquids all day (I await a ruling on light beer, but I anticipate a “no”) while ingesting an assortment of laxatives designed to keep me within twenty feet of a toilet at all times.

By this point of my article, I’m confident I have grossed-out most of my female readers (oh, just you wait), and have my fellow penis-toters’ full attention. Potty humor appeals more-so to the males.

I avoid doctors and similar procedures because I have a fear of bad news. Logic tells me it’s silly not to have regular check-ups. For shit’s sake, I have my car checked regularly, why wouldn’t I have my own chassis checked? Because I am a pussy. I have this strange belief that anything wrong with me will either fix itself or kill me quickly if I don’t know about it. Once I find out I have an issue, I’m confident that the treatment and my worrying will make it worse and kill me after prolonged torture. Yep, I’m a pussy.

I’ve had this internal argument with myself several times. This time, logic actually overrode fear with the following hypothesis:

If I am checked and nothing is wrong, I’ll have peace-of-mind. This is the most likely of the outcomes. If something minor is wrong, they can take care of it before it becomes major. If something major is wrong, I’m fucked, so I had better step up my efforts to bed the woman of my dreams before my rapidly approaching dirt nap.

You win, Mr. Logic.

Ladies, you may want to avoid my blog and tweetings like a skid-marked toilet tomorrow, as I plan on sharing my purge experience as a service to all man-behind. Don’t worry, though; I won’t be posting any doo-doo splatter pictures. I’m juvenile, but not entirely uncivilized. Heck, I wish someone would have given me the runs (sic) down. I don’t know what to expect as I stare at the internal combustion fluids I am about to ingest. The warning from the office includes a suggestion to use baby wipes instead of paper. Check.

Well, wish me luck, my brothers and sisters. I suggest you avoid SoCal tomorrow as there will be heavy artillery testing.

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About the author

Author of humorous essays about relationships and lifestyles.