Dedicated to fellow writer Clarise.
Dear reader; this non-erotic short story is my first attempt at writing humor. If you want a little chuckle read on and then leave a comment to let me know what you think of my effort. If you are looking for something a little more sexually salacious, you might want to look at another offering and then come back when you are in the mood for humor.
In support and in solidarity, I dedicate this story to my friend and fellow writer, Clarise, who recently had one of her stories deleted. My Colonoscopy:
by Hardrive
After several weeks of complaining about stomach discomfort and constipation, my wife Rita got tired of my belly aching and called her fudge-packing brother for advice. That made a lot of sense. After all, who better to ask about asshole problems than your queer brother? Woops, did I say queer? I meant to say Homo-American. Anyway, Rita said her brother recommended I go see a gastroenterologist for a full evaluation.
“What?” I asked, “An ass-hole-enter what? That doesn’t even sound like a real doctor. It’s probably some kind of voodoo fag doctor.”
“No, you homophobic ignore-anus” came Rita’s cynical reply. “A gas-tro-enter-ologist, is a doctor that specializes in disorders of the digestive system. My brother is a well regarded general practitioner and if he says you should have a full evaluation of your intestinal track, that’s exactly what you’re going to do. It’s high time someone looks up your stupid ass to see what kind of problems you’ve got brewing up there.”
“Oh, really,” I said, mocking her sarcastic tone, “Since you insist I need to have my colon examined by a doctor, I guess you’re finally ready to admit you’ve been wrong about me all these years.” Rita’s perplexed expression indicated that she had no idea what I was talking about, so I explained. “You’re always saying that I have my head stuck up my ass.” Rita nodded in agreement. “Well,” I said with a smug smile, “if my head was really up my ass why would we need to hire a doctor to see what’s wrong… I could see it for myself.”
I thought that was hilarious, so I slapped my wife’s butt and did a little victory jig while laughing my head off. Rita wasn’t amused.
“Oh, you can’t take it when I get the upper hand.” I started to mock her. “You think you and that fairy brother of yours are so much smarter than me. Just ‘cause I don’t have a fancy college education don’t mean that I can’t tell when you’re trying to pull my leg. There is no such thing as an ass-hole-enter-whatever, So, go ahead and make an appointment with your made-up doctor. I dare you.” Rita just gave me an icy stare, smiled and walked away.
A week later we were sitting at the doctor’s office listening to him explain why I needed to have a colonoscopy. I told the doc I’ve never heard of a cola-ass-copy and had no idea what he was talking about. The doctor picked up a book with full color illustrations and used it to thoroughly explain the procedure. Pointing to the interior of the large intestine he indicated the areas that he wanted to examine and photograph.
Nodding thoughtfully, I pretended to understand what he was talking about and asked a question or two that was intended to display my advanced knowledge of medical terms. “Will you be using an x-ray camera or an MIR to photograph my inners?
The doctor smiled. “No, we use a flexible hose to guild a miniature camera through your anus and into the full length of your large intestine.” Then he showed me a picture of a little camera attached to a very long black hose.
Hell no! I said to myself. I won’t even let my family doctor check my prostate, so there was no way this joker was going to shove a big old hose up my ass. Looking around the office I spotted the door, popped up out of my seat and began to vigorously shake the doctor’s hand while I thank him profusely for wonderful presentation. The doctor seemed confused and tired to interrupt me several times but I just continued to pump his hand while backing up towards the door. My plan was working just fine and I actually got to openthe door open and had one foot over the threshold before my wife decided to intervene.
Now at this point I’d like to pause to give my male readers some advice. Never marry a stout, red headed woman of Italian-Irish descent. That combination gives them a split personality that makes Bruce Banner’s transformation into the Hulk look like a mild eccentricity. In public she tries to maintain the illusion that she is the devoted wife and I’m the boss in our relationship… but in reality she calls all the shots and only lets me do what she wants me to do.
In public she always agrees with me but she uses a code to let me know what she really wants. Whenever she smiles and says ‘Yes dear’ while putting the accent on the ‘yes’ but elongating the ‘dear,’ that means that if I even think about doing what I want, she’ll make my life a living hell. And let me tell you, when my wife says ‘living hell’ she’s not talking about Dante’s little cake walk through the seven levels of the fiery pit. She’s talking about providing me with my own personal apocalypse. Believe me, when it comes to pursuing a vengeful agenda, my wife puts Captain Ahab to shame.
In this case she was determined that I was going to have that colonoscopy, so she moved quickly to intercept me at the door. Putting her arm around me in a very loving way, she smiled at the doctor while she worked her hand under my coat and up to my neck. Putting me in her version of the Vulcan death grip, Rita paralyzed my body. When the doctor noticed that my expression suddenly went blank, he asked if there was something wrong. All I could do was move my head left to right as Rita manipulated the back of my neck. When he asked if he could schedule my procedure, I wanted to say hell no but I found myself nodding ‘yes.’ Then, when the doctor smiled and said goodbye, Rita squeezed the nerves in my neck so hard that my pained grimmest looked like I was smiling back.
By the time we left the doctor’s office, I was feeling dizzy. Leaning against Rita, we walked over to the discharge nurse who gave us the doctor’s instructions and a prescription for a product called ‘Koli-Kleen.’ The nurse said I was to drink two doses of Koli-kleen the night prior to the colonoscopy. What she didn’t tell us was that using that product was going to be, without doubt, the most gruesome part of the whole procedure.
I didn’t know it then but a week after my colonoscopy I did a google search and found that Koli-Kleen is sold in the United States as a prescription laxative, but it was originally developed during world war two by the Gestapo. The Germans called it Magen-buster and used it to get prisoners to voluntarily run into gas chambers they mislabeled “Latrines.” After the war, the Russians developed the formula into a WMD or Weapon of Mass Defecation. When the cold war ended, the KBG sold the formula to the CIA who used it in Guantanamo as an interrogation aid. It was reported that the CIA had a lot of success getting even the most resistant terrorist to literally spill their guts, but when the UN found it was being used on the prisoners, they banned its use as inhumane and a serious breach of the Geneva Convention.
Considering the nefarious history of this product, it was beyond my comprehension how any Pharmaceutical Company could get it approved by the FDA for sale to the American public. But then I saw the outrages price on the insurance company’s invoice and my question was answered.
I was totally ignorant of all that before the colonoscopy so I spent the week prior to the procedure nervously worrying about the ‘big fat hose’ and never gave a second thought to the hellish experience that awaited me on the night before.
When the time came for me to get ready, I read the instructions. Step one said that 12 hours prior to the colonoscopy I shouldn’t take any solid foods by mouth. That kind of confused me since taking solid foods by mouth was the only way I knew how to do that. Anyway, by supper time I was pretty hungry so the wife suggested I try some chicken broth. I love chicken soup but chicken broth was a big disappointment. It is nothing more than hot salty water with a little food coloring. The only chicken you’ll find in chicken broth is the word “chicken” printed on the box.
But I digress… the second step was to try and drink the first dose of Koli-Kleen. I say try because the stuff tastes like industrial grade toilet cleaner. The pharmacist recommended the lemon flavored product but I can tell you right now that the lemon flavoring in that noxious concoction does absolutely nothing to mask its totally disgusting taste. In fact, to this day I still can’t look at a lemon without getting the dry heaves.
The instructions warned that After drinking the first dose I might experience some gastric discomfort followed by a loose bowel movement. That was a gross understatement. What the instructions should have said was that after taking Koli-Kleen, my guts would heave, toss and turn like a small boat caught in a typhoon and that shortly thereafter, everything in my stomach would simultaneously attempt to abandon ship through the stern of my little brown boat.
Holy Crap, that stuff works fast. It may not be written on the box but I believe that one of Koli-Kleen’s chief ingredients is rocket fuel. I say that because when that stuff kicks in, your colon ignites and the full content of your alimentary canal is explosively jettisoned out of your ass with such force that, unless you hold on to the toilet seat, it’s possible that your body could be propelled into low earth orbit.
Needless to say, I spent the whole night sitting on the toilet and nervously waiting for the many intestinal eruptions that followed. Whenever I felt my gut begin to rumble I shut my eyes, held on to the toilet seat and did a short count-down as my rocket powered ass violently sprayed whatever was in my guts into the crapper.
This went on for hours until my intestines were totally empty and I had nothing more to give. By then it was time to drink the second round of Koli-Kleen, and to my absolute amazement, the process started all over again. I couldn’t believe it possible that there was anything left in me to expel, but apparently I was wrong.
My only explanation for this extraordinary phenomenon is that the second dose of Koli-Kleen must have the ability to tap into the spiritual realm, locate my long dead ancestors and channel the festering content of their ancient intestines through my flaming ass-hole and into the commode.
And that leads us to a subject that isn’t covered by the Koli-Kleen instructions. I’m talking about the smell. Oh my god the smell is incredible.
Let’s face it, you can’t flush out the rotting content of someone’s intestine without creating some serious atmospheric pollution. You’re probably going to think I’m exaggerating but things got so bad at my house, that I actually saw lines of staggering insects abandoning the residence. I also witness our house plants literally wither and die right before my eyes. Even the plastic plants keeled over. Rita could attested to all this but she barricaded herself in the guestroom, stuffed towels into the crack under the door, and refused to come out until it was time to go to the clinic.
Needless to say, by the end of the evening I was exhausted. All that running back and forth to the bathroom left my legs feeling like the rubbery limbs of a punch drunk boxer, and my asshole like the business end of a blow torch. That night, after pushing several ice cubes up my raw pucker, I finally passed out and slept like a very tired and dehydrated baby.
The next morning my wife got me up at what is known in military time as “oh five hundred hours.” The “oh” stands for; “Oh my God, I can’t believe it’s still dark.” Anyway, when we arrived at the clinic we thought, since they wanted us there at the crack of dawn, that they intended to begin the procedure right away. We were wrong. Instead they had us filling out forms for hours. The frustrating part is that they had me answering questions I’ve already answered hundreds of times before. What the hell do they do with all that information? Obviously they don’t keep it or they wouldn’t need to ask the same dam questions over and over again.
When I was finished with the questioner the nurse brought in the consent form and asked me to sign. After looking it over I told her that I couldn’t possible sign it. She asked me why and I told her that just over the signature line there was a statement that said that I understood and agreed to all the terms, conditions and provisions stated therein. The document was twelve pages long and written in a Pig-Latin dialect of legalize that was so convoluted and incomprehensible that even my lawyer’s lawyer couldn’t have understood it.
The nurse looked at me and smiled. Then she told me I could take all the time I needed to read the consent forms and I didn’t have to sign them until I fully understood what I was signing. However, she quickly added that if I didn’t have the form signed within the next five minutes she would have to reschedule my procedure.
That’s all she had to say. It took me about five seconds to sign the release and hand it to her. There was no way I was going to reschedule the colonoscopy knowing full well that I would have to go through the same gut-draining pre-procedure I went through the night before. I think the clinic counts on that reaction and that’s why they ask you to sign the consent form after you’ve had the Koli-Kleen experience.
A half hour after I finished the paper work, a very fruity looking male nurse named Hector, came for me. He gave my wife a wink, put his hand on my shoulder and walked around me without taking his hand off my body. Then he asked her a question in a very swishy Spanish accent. “Is this jew hombre?” My wife nodded while trying to contain a very smug smile. Hector returned her smile and said, “Ay que Lindo.” And they both began to giggle as Hector put his hand through my arm and walked me down the clinic’s main corridor. “Don jew warry lindo,” he said as he snuggled up to me. “I will take berry good car of jew.”
Looking over my shoulder I made eye contact with my wife and with a sorrowful and plaintiff gaze I pleaded for her help, but Rita just smiled. It seemed to me that she was enjoying my predicament because all she did was hold up a box of Kolie-Kleen and gave me a looked that seemed to said… ‘are you sure you want to reschedule the procedure?
It was a long and uncomfortable walk to the prep-room, and when we got there Hector released my arm and handed me a plastic bag. He instructed me to go into a little room that had a curtain instead of a door. He asked me to take off all my clothes and put them in the bag. Then he handed me one of those hospital gowns. You know… the kind that is designed to strip you of all your dignity and make you feel more exposed and venerable then you’ve ever felt before.
After putting on the gown I noticed that my ass was hanging out of the back. Try as I might, I couldn’t stretch the cloth to cover my exposed behind. That’s when I saw Hector peeking through the curtains. The pervert was staring at my ass but when he saw me looking at him he smiled and asked if I was ready. Then he pushed a wheel chair into the room and with a big grin he patted the bench and told me to put my cute little tushie into the seat.
There was no way I was going to turn my bare bottom towards that flaming fruitcake so I just stood there looking at him. That’s when Hector decided to come around from behind the chair to help me get into the seat. It was more likely that he wanted to help himself into my seat, so as he approached, I clutched the back of my hospital gown and slowly backed away. Hector kept advancing and I kept retreating so we went around and around that wheelchair until I finally saw an opportunity to safely sit down.
The fruity nurse laughed, his very girly laugh, and called me a crazy gringo as he pushed my wheelchair into another room. There he tied a rubber tourniquet around my arm and tried to put an I.V. needle into the back of my hand. It only took him five tries, and while I would have normally fainted after the second attempt, there was no way I was going to allow myself to pass out while I was alone in the room with him. This was especially true after he started talking about the procedure. With a faraway and dreamy look in his eyes, he described the length and girth of the hose the doctor would be using… and then he said, “El doc-tor wheel e’put it in jew ass nice and e’slow. He wheel go in deeper and deeper. Ay bandito, It’z so beautiful I juice want to e’cry every time I thing about it.”
If I had any doubt about Hector’s sexual orientation, after listening to him describe the procedure, all my doubts were gone. Hector was what I called a real Granola Bar; flaky, fruity and nuts.
“listen up, Hector.” I said with my most manly voice. “There is no way that I am going to have sex with you.”
“What?” Hector said with a genuine look of surprise. Giving me a very stern look and with a very indignant voice he continued. “Is dat what jew ting? Will jew are so rung. Having sex wit jew is da last ting on my mine. DA LAST TING! No senor. First jew will half to ax me to dinner, and den to a show and den after dat….”
“Read my lips Hector… No Way!!!”
Hector looked disappointed so he changed the subject and asked me if I had taken the Koli-Kleen as proscribed. My revolted expression and the cold shiver that ran up and down my spine leaving my puckered face quivering with a look of pure disgust, told him all he needed to know.
“O’ I si, no juan e’toll jew?” The blank expression on my face let him know I had no idea what the hell he was talking about, so he went on. “Jew can e’take un poco de Tequila before jew drink that sheet. Dat e’helps it e’go down mucho more ezy.”
As soon as I figured out what he was trying to say, a light bulb went on over my head. What a great idea. I had a fully stocked bar at home and would have gladly downed a bottle of good Iris whisky if I had known it was okay to drink before taking that Koli-Krap. But then I started to imagine myself drunk and stumbling around the house, squirting and dripping all over the rug and the furniture. There was no way Rita would have cleaned up after me, and knowing her, she probably would have had no alternative but to shot me, torch the house for the insurance money and move down to Florida.
As Hector wheeled me into the procedure room I looked around nervously and saw the doctor and anesthesiologist standing there, but no sign of the dreaded “Big fat hose.” No doubt they planed on bringing it in after I was asleep. That sounded like such a waste of Anastasia. Not because I was so brave that I didn’t need it, but because all they would have had to do was to show me that “big fat hose” and I would have passed out on my own.
Before putting me under, the doctor had me roll over on my side, pull up my knees and count backward from a hundred. As I started to count I heard someone, standing behind me and singing with a swishy Spanish accent. To my great horror I realized it was Hector. He was standing behind me while he sang ”I fee pretty” from ‘West Side Story.’ Oh my god, that raving queen was going to be in the room while I was laying there unconscious and my naked butt exposed.
With my last once of strength I looked up at the doctor and with pleading eyes begged him. “Please shot me now before I pass out from the anesthesia,” but no such luck. The room went dark and the next thing I knew I was waking up in the recovery room, still feeling high from the drugs they gave me.
The first thing I saw was my doctor’s smiling face. He looked down at me and asked how I felt. I told him I felt great except for a little discomfort around that place where the sun never shines. That reminded me of my last thoughts before going under so I reached up, grasped my doctor by the collar and pulling his face down close to mine. In an almost threatening tone I asked him, “Did you leave me alone with Hector at any time during the procedure?” The doctor looked puzzled but he assured me that he hadn’t. When I let him go the doctor said he had good news. My colon was fine and there was no evidence of any malignancy.
“Thanks doc,” I said. Then I asked him to do me a favor. “Please tell my wife…”
“I’ve already given her the good news.” The doctor interrupted.
“No, not that.” I said, as I grabbed him by the collar and pulled him down close to my face again. “I want you to let her know that you’ve performed a very thorough inspection of my entire intestinal track and looked into every nook and cranny of my colon… Got that?” The doctor nodded that he did. “Okay, then I want you to tell her that you’ve found absolutely no evidence that I’ve ever had my head up my ass.”
THE END
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Dedicated to fellow writer Clarise.
Dear reader; this non-erotic short story is my first attempt at writing humor. If you want a little chuckle read on and then leave a comment to let me know what you think of my effort. If you are looking for something a little more sexually salacious, you might want to look at another offering and then come back when you are in the mood for humor.
In support and in solidarity, I dedicate this story to my friend and fellow writer, Clarise, who recently had one of her stories deleted. My Colonoscopy:
by Hardrive
After several weeks of complaining about stomach discomfort and constipation, my wife Rita got tired of my belly aching and called her fudge-packing brother for advice. That made a lot of sense. After all, who better to ask about asshole problems than your queer brother? Woops, did I say queer? I meant to say Homo-American. Anyway, Rita said her brother recommended I go see a gastroenterologist for a full evaluation.
“What?” I asked, “An ass-hole-enter what? That doesn’t even sound like a real doctor. It’s probably some kind of voodoo fag doctor.”
“No, you homophobic ignore-anus” came Rita’s cynical reply. “A gas-tro-enter-ologist, is a doctor that specializes in disorders of the digestive system. My brother is a well regarded general practitioner and if he says you should have a full evaluation of your intestinal track, that’s exactly what you’re going to do. It’s high time someone looks up your stupid ass to see what kind of problems you’ve got brewing up there.”
“Oh, really,” I said, mocking her sarcastic tone, “Since you insist I need to have my colon examined by a doctor, I guess you’re finally ready to admit you’ve been wrong about me all these years.” Rita’s perplexed expression indicated that she had no idea what I was talking about, so I explained. “You’re always saying that I have my head stuck up my ass.” Rita nodded in agreement. “Well,” I said with a smug smile, “if my head was really up my ass why would we need to hire a doctor to see what’s wrong… I could see it for myself.”
I thought that was hilarious, so I slapped my wife’s butt and did a little victory jig while laughing my head off. Rita wasn’t amused.
“Oh, you can’t take it when I get the upper hand.” I started to mock her. “You think you and that fairy brother of yours are so much smarter than me. Just ‘cause I don’t have a fancy college education don’t mean that I can’t tell when you’re trying to pull my leg. There is no such thing as an ass-hole-enter-whatever, So, go ahead and make an appointment with your made-up doctor. I dare you.” Rita just gave me an icy stare, smiled and walked away.
A week later we were sitting at the doctor’s office listening to him explain why I needed to have a colonoscopy. I told the doc I’ve never heard of a cola-ass-copy and had no idea what he was talking about. The doctor picked up a book with full color illustrations and used it to thoroughly explain the procedure. Pointing to the interior of the large intestine he indicated the areas that he wanted to examine and photograph.
Nodding thoughtfully, I pretended to understand what he was talking about and asked a question or two that was intended to display my advanced knowledge of medical terms. “Will you be using an x-ray camera or an MIR to photograph my inners?
The doctor smiled. “No, we use a flexible hose to guild a miniature camera through your anus and into the full length of your large intestine.” Then he showed me a picture of a little camera attached to a very long black hose.
Hell no! I said to myself. I won’t even let my family doctor check my prostate, so there was no way this joker was going to shove a big old hose up my ass. Looking around the office I spotted the door, popped up out of my seat and began to vigorously shake the doctor’s hand while I thank him profusely for wonderful presentation. The doctor seemed confused and tired to interrupt me several times but I just continued to pump his hand while backing up towards the door. My plan was working just fine and I actually got to openthe door open and had one foot over the threshold before my wife decided to intervene.
Now at this point I’d like to pause to give my male readers some advice. Never marry a stout, red headed woman of Italian-Irish descent. That combination gives them a split personality that makes Bruce Banner’s transformation into the Hulk look like a mild eccentricity. In public she tries to maintain the illusion that she is the devoted wife and I’m the boss in our relationship… but in reality she calls all the shots and only lets me do what she wants me to do.
In public she always agrees with me but she uses a code to let me know what she really wants. Whenever she smiles and says ‘Yes dear’ while putting the accent on the ‘yes’ but elongating the ‘dear,’ that means that if I even think about doing what I want, she’ll make my life a living hell. And let me tell you, when my wife says ‘living hell’ she’s not talking about Dante’s little cake walk through the seven levels of the fiery pit. She’s talking about providing me with my own personal apocalypse. Believe me, when it comes to pursuing a vengeful agenda, my wife puts Captain Ahab to shame.
In this case she was determined that I was going to have that colonoscopy, so she moved quickly to intercept me at the door. Putting her arm around me in a very loving way, she smiled at the doctor while she worked her hand under my coat and up to my neck. Putting me in her version of the Vulcan death grip, Rita paralyzed my body. When the doctor noticed that my expression suddenly went blank, he asked if there was something wrong. All I could do was move my head left to right as Rita manipulated the back of my neck. When he asked if he could schedule my procedure, I wanted to say hell no but I found myself nodding ‘yes.’ Then, when the doctor smiled and said goodbye, Rita squeezed the nerves in my neck so hard that my pained grimmest looked like I was smiling back.
By the time we left the doctor’s office, I was feeling dizzy. Leaning against Rita, we walked over to the discharge nurse who gave us the doctor’s instructions and a prescription for a product called ‘Koli-Kleen.’ The nurse said I was to drink two doses of Koli-kleen the night prior to the colonoscopy. What she didn’t tell us was that using that product was going to be, without doubt, the most gruesome part of the whole procedure.
I didn’t know it then but a week after my colonoscopy I did a google search and found that Koli-Kleen is sold in the United States as a prescription laxative, but it was originally developed during world war two by the Gestapo. The Germans called it Magen-buster and used it to get prisoners to voluntarily run into gas chambers they mislabeled “Latrines.” After the war, the Russians developed the formula into a WMD or Weapon of Mass Defecation. When the cold war ended, the KBG sold the formula to the CIA who used it in Guantanamo as an interrogation aid. It was reported that the CIA had a lot of success getting even the most resistant terrorist to literally spill their guts, but when the UN found it was being used on the prisoners, they banned its use as inhumane and a serious breach of the Geneva Convention.
Considering the nefarious history of this product, it was beyond my comprehension how any Pharmaceutical Company could get it approved by the FDA for sale to the American public. But then I saw the outrages price on the insurance company’s invoice and my question was answered.
I was totally ignorant of all that before the colonoscopy so I spent the week prior to the procedure nervously worrying about the ‘big fat hose’ and never gave a second thought to the hellish experience that awaited me on the night before.
When the time came for me to get ready, I read the instructions. Step one said that 12 hours prior to the colonoscopy I shouldn’t take any solid foods by mouth. That kind of confused me since taking solid foods by mouth was the only way I knew how to do that. Anyway, by supper time I was pretty hungry so the wife suggested I try some chicken broth. I love chicken soup but chicken broth was a big disappointment. It is nothing more than hot salty water with a little food coloring. The only chicken you’ll find in chicken broth is the word “chicken” printed on the box.
But I digress… the second step was to try and drink the first dose of Koli-Kleen. I say try because the stuff tastes like industrial grade toilet cleaner. The pharmacist recommended the lemon flavored product but I can tell you right now that the lemon flavoring in that noxious concoction does absolutely nothing to mask its totally disgusting taste. In fact, to this day I still can’t look at a lemon without getting the dry heaves.
The instructions warned that After drinking the first dose I might experience some gastric discomfort followed by a loose bowel movement. That was a gross understatement. What the instructions should have said was that after taking Koli-Kleen, my guts would heave, toss and turn like a small boat caught in a typhoon and that shortly thereafter, everything in my stomach would simultaneously attempt to abandon ship through the stern of my little brown boat.
Holy Crap, that stuff works fast. It may not be written on the box but I believe that one of Koli-Kleen’s chief ingredients is rocket fuel. I say that because when that stuff kicks in, your colon ignites and the full content of your alimentary canal is explosively jettisoned out of your ass with such force that, unless you hold on to the toilet seat, it’s possible that your body could be propelled into low earth orbit.
Needless to say, I spent the whole night sitting on the toilet and nervously waiting for the many intestinal eruptions that followed. Whenever I felt my gut begin to rumble I shut my eyes, held on to the toilet seat and did a short count-down as my rocket powered ass violently sprayed whatever was in my guts into the crapper.
This went on for hours until my intestines were totally empty and I had nothing more to give. By then it was time to drink the second round of Koli-Kleen, and to my absolute amazement, the process started all over again. I couldn’t believe it possible that there was anything left in me to expel, but apparently I was wrong.
My only explanation for this extraordinary phenomenon is that the second dose of Koli-Kleen must have the ability to tap into the spiritual realm, locate my long dead ancestors and channel the festering content of their ancient intestines through my flaming ass-hole and into the commode.
And that leads us to a subject that isn’t covered by the Koli-Kleen instructions. I’m talking about the smell. Oh my god the smell is incredible.
Let’s face it, you can’t flush out the rotting content of someone’s intestine without creating some serious atmospheric pollution. You’re probably going to think I’m exaggerating but things got so bad at my house, that I actually saw lines of staggering insects abandoning the residence. I also witness our house plants literally wither and die right before my eyes. Even the plastic plants keeled over. Rita could attested to all this but she barricaded herself in the guestroom, stuffed towels into the crack under the door, and refused to come out until it was time to go to the clinic.
Needless to say, by the end of the evening I was exhausted. All that running back and forth to the bathroom left my legs feeling like the rubbery limbs of a punch drunk boxer, and my asshole like the business end of a blow torch. That night, after pushing several ice cubes up my raw pucker, I finally passed out and slept like a very tired and dehydrated baby.
The next morning my wife got me up at what is known in military time as “oh five hundred hours.” The “oh” stands for; “Oh my God, I can’t believe it’s still dark.” Anyway, when we arrived at the clinic we thought, since they wanted us there at the crack of dawn, that they intended to begin the procedure right away. We were wrong. Instead they had us filling out forms for hours. The frustrating part is that they had me answering questions I’ve already answered hundreds of times before. What the hell do they do with all that information? Obviously they don’t keep it or they wouldn’t need to ask the same dam questions over and over again.
When I was finished with the questioner the nurse brought in the consent form and asked me to sign. After looking it over I told her that I couldn’t possible sign it. She asked me why and I told her that just over the signature line there was a statement that said that I understood and agreed to all the terms, conditions and provisions stated therein. The document was twelve pages long and written in a Pig-Latin dialect of legalize that was so convoluted and incomprehensible that even my lawyer’s lawyer couldn’t have understood it.
The nurse looked at me and smiled. Then she told me I could take all the time I needed to read the consent forms and I didn’t have to sign them until I fully understood what I was signing. However, she quickly added that if I didn’t have the form signed within the next five minutes she would have to reschedule my procedure.
That’s all she had to say. It took me about five seconds to sign the release and hand it to her. There was no way I was going to reschedule the colonoscopy knowing full well that I would have to go through the same gut-draining pre-procedure I went through the night before. I think the clinic counts on that reaction and that’s why they ask you to sign the consent form after you’ve had the Koli-Kleen experience.
A half hour after I finished the paper work, a very fruity looking male nurse named Hector, came for me. He gave my wife a wink, put his hand on my shoulder and walked around me without taking his hand off my body. Then he asked her a question in a very swishy Spanish accent. “Is this jew hombre?” My wife nodded while trying to contain a very smug smile. Hector returned her smile and said, “Ay que Lindo.” And they both began to giggle as Hector put his hand through my arm and walked me down the clinic’s main corridor. “Don jew warry lindo,” he said as he snuggled up to me. “I will take berry good car of jew.”
Looking over my shoulder I made eye contact with my wife and with a sorrowful and plaintiff gaze I pleaded for her help, but Rita just smiled. It seemed to me that she was enjoying my predicament because all she did was hold up a box of Kolie-Kleen and gave me a looked that seemed to said… ‘are you sure you want to reschedule the procedure?
It was a long and uncomfortable walk to the prep-room, and when we got there Hector released my arm and handed me a plastic bag. He instructed me to go into a little room that had a curtain instead of a door. He asked me to take off all my clothes and put them in the bag. Then he handed me one of those hospital gowns. You know… the kind that is designed to strip you of all your dignity and make you feel more exposed and venerable then you’ve ever felt before.
After putting on the gown I noticed that my ass was hanging out of the back. Try as I might, I couldn’t stretch the cloth to cover my exposed behind. That’s when I saw Hector peeking through the curtains. The pervert was staring at my ass but when he saw me looking at him he smiled and asked if I was ready. Then he pushed a wheel chair into the room and with a big grin he patted the bench and told me to put my cute little tushie into the seat.
There was no way I was going to turn my bare bottom towards that flaming fruitcake so I just stood there looking at him. That’s when Hector decided to come around from behind the chair to help me get into the seat. It was more likely that he wanted to help himself into my seat, so as he approached, I clutched the back of my hospital gown and slowly backed away. Hector kept advancing and I kept retreating so we went around and around that wheelchair until I finally saw an opportunity to safely sit down.
The fruity nurse laughed, his very girly laugh, and called me a crazy gringo as he pushed my wheelchair into another room. There he tied a rubber tourniquet around my arm and tried to put an I.V. needle into the back of my hand. It only took him five tries, and while I would have normally fainted after the second attempt, there was no way I was going to allow myself to pass out while I was alone in the room with him. This was especially true after he started talking about the procedure. With a faraway and dreamy look in his eyes, he described the length and girth of the hose the doctor would be using… and then he said, “El doc-tor wheel e’put it in jew ass nice and e’slow. He wheel go in deeper and deeper. Ay bandito, It’z so beautiful I juice want to e’cry every time I thing about it.”
If I had any doubt about Hector’s sexual orientation, after listening to him describe the procedure, all my doubts were gone. Hector was what I called a real Granola Bar; flaky, fruity and nuts.
“listen up, Hector.” I said with my most manly voice. “There is no way that I am going to have sex with you.”
“What?” Hector said with a genuine look of surprise. Giving me a very stern look and with a very indignant voice he continued. “Is dat what jew ting? Will jew are so rung. Having sex wit jew is da last ting on my mine. DA LAST TING! No senor. First jew will half to ax me to dinner, and den to a show and den after dat….”
“Read my lips Hector… No Way!!!”
Hector looked disappointed so he changed the subject and asked me if I had taken the Koli-Kleen as proscribed. My revolted expression and the cold shiver that ran up and down my spine leaving my puckered face quivering with a look of pure disgust, told him all he needed to know.
“O’ I si, no juan e’toll jew?” The blank expression on my face let him know I had no idea what the hell he was talking about, so he went on. “Jew can e’take un poco de Tequila before jew drink that sheet. Dat e’helps it e’go down mucho more ezy.”
As soon as I figured out what he was trying to say, a light bulb went on over my head. What a great idea. I had a fully stocked bar at home and would have gladly downed a bottle of good Iris whisky if I had known it was okay to drink before taking that Koli-Krap. But then I started to imagine myself drunk and stumbling around the house, squirting and dripping all over the rug and the furniture. There was no way Rita would have cleaned up after me, and knowing her, she probably would have had no alternative but to shot me, torch the house for the insurance money and move down to Florida.
As Hector wheeled me into the procedure room I looked around nervously and saw the doctor and anesthesiologist standing there, but no sign of the dreaded “Big fat hose.” No doubt they planed on bringing it in after I was asleep. That sounded like such a waste of Anastasia. Not because I was so brave that I didn’t need it, but because all they would have had to do was to show me that “big fat hose” and I would have passed out on my own.
Before putting me under, the doctor had me roll over on my side, pull up my knees and count backward from a hundred. As I started to count I heard someone, standing behind me and singing with a swishy Spanish accent. To my great horror I realized it was Hector. He was standing behind me while he sang ”I fee pretty” from ‘West Side Story.’ Oh my god, that raving queen was going to be in the room while I was laying there unconscious and my naked butt exposed.
With my last once of strength I looked up at the doctor and with pleading eyes begged him. “Please shot me now before I pass out from the anesthesia,” but no such luck. The room went dark and the next thing I knew I was waking up in the recovery room, still feeling high from the drugs they gave me.
The first thing I saw was my doctor’s smiling face. He looked down at me and asked how I felt. I told him I felt great except for a little discomfort around that place where the sun never shines. That reminded me of my last thoughts before going under so I reached up, grasped my doctor by the collar and pulling his face down close to mine. In an almost threatening tone I asked him, “Did you leave me alone with Hector at any time during the procedure?” The doctor looked puzzled but he assured me that he hadn’t. When I let him go the doctor said he had good news. My colon was fine and there was no evidence of any malignancy.
“Thanks doc,” I said. Then I asked him to do me a favor. “Please tell my wife…”
“I’ve already given her the good news.” The doctor interrupted.
“No, not that.” I said, as I grabbed him by the collar and pulled him down close to my face again. “I want you to let her know that you’ve performed a very thorough inspection of my entire intestinal track and looked into every nook and cranny of my colon… Got that?” The doctor nodded that he did. “Okay, then I want you to tell her that you’ve found absolutely no evidence that I’ve ever had my head up my ass.”
THE END
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Dedicated to fellow writer Clarise.
Dear reader; this non-erotic short story is my first attempt at writing humor. If you want a little chuckle read on and then leave a comment to let me know what you think of my effort. If you are looking for something a little more sexually salacious, you might want to look at another offering and then come back when you are in the mood for humor.
In support and in solidarity, I dedicate this story to my friend and fellow writer, Clarise, who recently had one of her stories deleted. My Colonoscopy:
by Hardrive
After several weeks of complaining about stomach discomfort and constipation, my wife Rita got tired of my belly aching and called her fudge-packing brother for advice. That made a lot of sense. After all, who better to ask about asshole problems than your queer brother? Woops, did I say queer? I meant to say Homo-American. Anyway, Rita said her brother recommended I go see a gastroenterologist for a full evaluation.
“What?” I asked, “An ass-hole-enter what? That doesn’t even sound like a real doctor. It’s probably some kind of voodoo fag doctor.”
“No, you homophobic ignore-anus” came Rita’s cynical reply. “A gas-tro-enter-ologist, is a doctor that specializes in disorders of the digestive system. My brother is a well regarded general practitioner and if he says you should have a full evaluation of your intestinal track, that’s exactly what you’re going to do. It’s high time someone looks up your stupid ass to see what kind of problems you’ve got brewing up there.”
“Oh, really,” I said, mocking her sarcastic tone, “Since you insist I need to have my colon examined by a doctor, I guess you’re finally ready to admit you’ve been wrong about me all these years.” Rita’s perplexed expression indicated that she had no idea what I was talking about, so I explained. “You’re always saying that I have my head stuck up my ass.” Rita nodded in agreement. “Well,” I said with a smug smile, “if my head was really up my ass why would we need to hire a doctor to see what’s wrong… I could see it for myself.”
I thought that was hilarious, so I slapped my wife’s butt and did a little victory jig while laughing my head off. Rita wasn’t amused.
“Oh, you can’t take it when I get the upper hand.” I started to mock her. “You think you and that fairy brother of yours are so much smarter than me. Just ‘cause I don’t have a fancy college education don’t mean that I can’t tell when you’re trying to pull my leg. There is no such thing as an ass-hole-enter-whatever, So, go ahead and make an appointment with your made-up doctor. I dare you.” Rita just gave me an icy stare, smiled and walked away.
A week later we were sitting at the doctor’s office listening to him explain why I needed to have a colonoscopy. I told the doc I’ve never heard of a cola-ass-copy and had no idea what he was talking about. The doctor picked up a book with full color illustrations and used it to thoroughly explain the procedure. Pointing to the interior of the large intestine he indicated the areas that he wanted to examine and photograph.
Nodding thoughtfully, I pretended to understand what he was talking about and asked a question or two that was intended to display my advanced knowledge of medical terms. “Will you be using an x-ray camera or an MIR to photograph my inners?
The doctor smiled. “No, we use a flexible hose to guild a miniature camera through your anus and into the full length of your large intestine.” Then he showed me a picture of a little camera attached to a very long black hose.
Hell no! I said to myself. I won’t even let my family doctor check my prostate, so there was no way this joker was going to shove a big old hose up my ass. Looking around the office I spotted the door, popped up out of my seat and began to vigorously shake the doctor’s hand while I thank him profusely for wonderful presentation. The doctor seemed confused and tired to interrupt me several times but I just continued to pump his hand while backing up towards the door. My plan was working just fine and I actually got to openthe door open and had one foot over the threshold before my wife decided to intervene.
Now at this point I’d like to pause to give my male readers some advice. Never marry a stout, red headed woman of Italian-Irish descent. That combination gives them a split personality that makes Bruce Banner’s transformation into the Hulk look like a mild eccentricity. In public she tries to maintain the illusion that she is the devoted wife and I’m the boss in our relationship… but in reality she calls all the shots and only lets me do what she wants me to do.
In public she always agrees with me but she uses a code to let me know what she really wants. Whenever she smiles and says ‘Yes dear’ while putting the accent on the ‘yes’ but elongating the ‘dear,’ that means that if I even think about doing what I want, she’ll make my life a living hell. And let me tell you, when my wife says ‘living hell’ she’s not talking about Dante’s little cake walk through the seven levels of the fiery pit. She’s talking about providing me with my own personal apocalypse. Believe me, when it comes to pursuing a vengeful agenda, my wife puts Captain Ahab to shame.
In this case she was determined that I was going to have that colonoscopy, so she moved quickly to intercept me at the door. Putting her arm around me in a very loving way, she smiled at the doctor while she worked her hand under my coat and up to my neck. Putting me in her version of the Vulcan death grip, Rita paralyzed my body. When the doctor noticed that my expression suddenly went blank, he asked if there was something wrong. All I could do was move my head left to right as Rita manipulated the back of my neck. When he asked if he could schedule my procedure, I wanted to say hell no but I found myself nodding ‘yes.’ Then, when the doctor smiled and said goodbye, Rita squeezed the nerves in my neck so hard that my pained grimmest looked like I was smiling back.
By the time we left the doctor’s office, I was feeling dizzy. Leaning against Rita, we walked over to the discharge nurse who gave us the doctor’s instructions and a prescription for a product called ‘Koli-Kleen.’ The nurse said I was to drink two doses of Koli-kleen the night prior to the colonoscopy. What she didn’t tell us was that using that product was going to be, without doubt, the most gruesome part of the whole procedure.
I didn’t know it then but a week after my colonoscopy I did a google search and found that Koli-Kleen is sold in the United States as a prescription laxative, but it was originally developed during world war two by the Gestapo. The Germans called it Magen-buster and used it to get prisoners to voluntarily run into gas chambers they mislabeled “Latrines.” After the war, the Russians developed the formula into a WMD or Weapon of Mass Defecation. When the cold war ended, the KBG sold the formula to the CIA who used it in Guantanamo as an interrogation aid. It was reported that the CIA had a lot of success getting even the most resistant terrorist to literally spill their guts, but when the UN found it was being used on the prisoners, they banned its use as inhumane and a serious breach of the Geneva Convention.
Considering the nefarious history of this product, it was beyond my comprehension how any Pharmaceutical Company could get it approved by the FDA for sale to the American public. But then I saw the outrages price on the insurance company’s invoice and my question was answered.
I was totally ignorant of all that before the colonoscopy so I spent the week prior to the procedure nervously worrying about the ‘big fat hose’ and never gave a second thought to the hellish experience that awaited me on the night before.
When the time came for me to get ready, I read the instructions. Step one said that 12 hours prior to the colonoscopy I shouldn’t take any solid foods by mouth. That kind of confused me since taking solid foods by mouth was the only way I knew how to do that. Anyway, by supper time I was pretty hungry so the wife suggested I try some chicken broth. I love chicken soup but chicken broth was a big disappointment. It is nothing more than hot salty water with a little food coloring. The only chicken you’ll find in chicken broth is the word “chicken” printed on the box.
But I digress… the second step was to try and drink the first dose of Koli-Kleen. I say try because the stuff tastes like industrial grade toilet cleaner. The pharmacist recommended the lemon flavored product but I can tell you right now that the lemon flavoring in that noxious concoction does absolutely nothing to mask its totally disgusting taste. In fact, to this day I still can’t look at a lemon without getting the dry heaves.
The instructions warned that After drinking the first dose I might experience some gastric discomfort followed by a loose bowel movement. That was a gross understatement. What the instructions should have said was that after taking Koli-Kleen, my guts would heave, toss and turn like a small boat caught in a typhoon and that shortly thereafter, everything in my stomach would simultaneously attempt to abandon ship through the stern of my little brown boat.
Holy Crap, that stuff works fast. It may not be written on the box but I believe that one of Koli-Kleen’s chief ingredients is rocket fuel. I say that because when that stuff kicks in, your colon ignites and the full content of your alimentary canal is explosively jettisoned out of your ass with such force that, unless you hold on to the toilet seat, it’s possible that your body could be propelled into low earth orbit.
Needless to say, I spent the whole night sitting on the toilet and nervously waiting for the many intestinal eruptions that followed. Whenever I felt my gut begin to rumble I shut my eyes, held on to the toilet seat and did a short count-down as my rocket powered ass violently sprayed whatever was in my guts into the crapper.
This went on for hours until my intestines were totally empty and I had nothing more to give. By then it was time to drink the second round of Koli-Kleen, and to my absolute amazement, the process started all over again. I couldn’t believe it possible that there was anything left in me to expel, but apparently I was wrong.
My only explanation for this extraordinary phenomenon is that the second dose of Koli-Kleen must have the ability to tap into the spiritual realm, locate my long dead ancestors and channel the festering content of their ancient intestines through my flaming ass-hole and into the commode.
And that leads us to a subject that isn’t covered by the Koli-Kleen instructions. I’m talking about the smell. Oh my god the smell is incredible.
Let’s face it, you can’t flush out the rotting content of someone’s intestine without creating some serious atmospheric pollution. You’re probably going to think I’m exaggerating but things got so bad at my house, that I actually saw lines of staggering insects abandoning the residence. I also witness our house plants literally wither and die right before my eyes. Even the plastic plants keeled over. Rita could attested to all this but she barricaded herself in the guestroom, stuffed towels into the crack under the door, and refused to come out until it was time to go to the clinic.
Needless to say, by the end of the evening I was exhausted. All that running back and forth to the bathroom left my legs feeling like the rubbery limbs of a punch drunk boxer, and my asshole like the business end of a blow torch. That night, after pushing several ice cubes up my raw pucker, I finally passed out and slept like a very tired and dehydrated baby.
The next morning my wife got me up at what is known in military time as “oh five hundred hours.” The “oh” stands for; “Oh my God, I can’t believe it’s still dark.” Anyway, when we arrived at the clinic we thought, since they wanted us there at the crack of dawn, that they intended to begin the procedure right away. We were wrong. Instead they had us filling out forms for hours. The frustrating part is that they had me answering questions I’ve already answered hundreds of times before. What the hell do they do with all that information? Obviously they don’t keep it or they wouldn’t need to ask the same dam questions over and over again.
When I was finished with the questioner the nurse brought in the consent form and asked me to sign. After looking it over I told her that I couldn’t possible sign it. She asked me why and I told her that just over the signature line there was a statement that said that I understood and agreed to all the terms, conditions and provisions stated therein. The document was twelve pages long and written in a Pig-Latin dialect of legalize that was so convoluted and incomprehensible that even my lawyer’s lawyer couldn’t have understood it.
The nurse looked at me and smiled. Then she told me I could take all the time I needed to read the consent forms and I didn’t have to sign them until I fully understood what I was signing. However, she quickly added that if I didn’t have the form signed within the next five minutes she would have to reschedule my procedure.
That’s all she had to say. It took me about five seconds to sign the release and hand it to her. There was no way I was going to reschedule the colonoscopy knowing full well that I would have to go through the same gut-draining pre-procedure I went through the night before. I think the clinic counts on that reaction and that’s why they ask you to sign the consent form after you’ve had the Koli-Kleen experience.
A half hour after I finished the paper work, a very fruity looking male nurse named Hector, came for me. He gave my wife a wink, put his hand on my shoulder and walked around me without taking his hand off my body. Then he asked her a question in a very swishy Spanish accent. “Is this jew hombre?” My wife nodded while trying to contain a very smug smile. Hector returned her smile and said, “Ay que Lindo.” And they both began to giggle as Hector put his hand through my arm and walked me down the clinic’s main corridor. “Don jew warry lindo,” he said as he snuggled up to me. “I will take berry good car of jew.”
Looking over my shoulder I made eye contact with my wife and with a sorrowful and plaintiff gaze I pleaded for her help, but Rita just smiled. It seemed to me that she was enjoying my predicament because all she did was hold up a box of Kolie-Kleen and gave me a looked that seemed to said… ‘are you sure you want to reschedule the procedure?
It was a long and uncomfortable walk to the prep-room, and when we got there Hector released my arm and handed me a plastic bag. He instructed me to go into a little room that had a curtain instead of a door. He asked me to take off all my clothes and put them in the bag. Then he handed me one of those hospital gowns. You know… the kind that is designed to strip you of all your dignity and make you feel more exposed and venerable then you’ve ever felt before.
After putting on the gown I noticed that my ass was hanging out of the back. Try as I might, I couldn’t stretch the cloth to cover my exposed behind. That’s when I saw Hector peeking through the curtains. The pervert was staring at my ass but when he saw me looking at him he smiled and asked if I was ready. Then he pushed a wheel chair into the room and with a big grin he patted the bench and told me to put my cute little tushie into the seat.
There was no way I was going to turn my bare bottom towards that flaming fruitcake so I just stood there looking at him. That’s when Hector decided to come around from behind the chair to help me get into the seat. It was more likely that he wanted to help himself into my seat, so as he approached, I clutched the back of my hospital gown and slowly backed away. Hector kept advancing and I kept retreating so we went around and around that wheelchair until I finally saw an opportunity to safely sit down.
The fruity nurse laughed, his very girly laugh, and called me a crazy gringo as he pushed my wheelchair into another room. There he tied a rubber tourniquet around my arm and tried to put an I.V. needle into the back of my hand. It only took him five tries, and while I would have normally fainted after the second attempt, there was no way I was going to allow myself to pass out while I was alone in the room with him. This was especially true after he started talking about the procedure. With a faraway and dreamy look in his eyes, he described the length and girth of the hose the doctor would be using… and then he said, “El doc-tor wheel e’put it in jew ass nice and e’slow. He wheel go in deeper and deeper. Ay bandito, It’z so beautiful I juice want to e’cry every time I thing about it.”
If I had any doubt about Hector’s sexual orientation, after listening to him describe the procedure, all my doubts were gone. Hector was what I called a real Granola Bar; flaky, fruity and nuts.
“listen up, Hector.” I said with my most manly voice. “There is no way that I am going to have sex with you.”
“What?” Hector said with a genuine look of surprise. Giving me a very stern look and with a very indignant voice he continued. “Is dat what jew ting? Will jew are so rung. Having sex wit jew is da last ting on my mine. DA LAST TING! No senor. First jew will half to ax me to dinner, and den to a show and den after dat….”
“Read my lips Hector… No Way!!!”
Hector looked disappointed so he changed the subject and asked me if I had taken the Koli-Kleen as proscribed. My revolted expression and the cold shiver that ran up and down my spine leaving my puckered face quivering with a look of pure disgust, told him all he needed to know.
“O’ I si, no juan e’toll jew?” The blank expression on my face let him know I had no idea what the hell he was talking about, so he went on. “Jew can e’take un poco de Tequila before jew drink that sheet. Dat e’helps it e’go down mucho more ezy.”
As soon as I figured out what he was trying to say, a light bulb went on over my head. What a great idea. I had a fully stocked bar at home and would have gladly downed a bottle of good Iris whisky if I had known it was okay to drink before taking that Koli-Krap. But then I started to imagine myself drunk and stumbling around the house, squirting and dripping all over the rug and the furniture. There was no way Rita would have cleaned up after me, and knowing her, she probably would have had no alternative but to shot me, torch the house for the insurance money and move down to Florida.
As Hector wheeled me into the procedure room I looked around nervously and saw the doctor and anesthesiologist standing there, but no sign of the dreaded “Big fat hose.” No doubt they planed on bringing it in after I was asleep. That sounded like such a waste of Anastasia. Not because I was so brave that I didn’t need it, but because all they would have had to do was to show me that “big fat hose” and I would have passed out on my own.
Before putting me under, the doctor had me roll over on my side, pull up my knees and count backward from a hundred. As I started to count I heard someone, standing behind me and singing with a swishy Spanish accent. To my great horror I realized it was Hector. He was standing behind me while he sang ”I fee pretty” from ‘West Side Story.’ Oh my god, that raving queen was going to be in the room while I was laying there unconscious and my naked butt exposed.
With my last once of strength I looked up at the doctor and with pleading eyes begged him. “Please shot me now before I pass out from the anesthesia,” but no such luck. The room went dark and the next thing I knew I was waking up in the recovery room, still feeling high from the drugs they gave me.
The first thing I saw was my doctor’s smiling face. He looked down at me and asked how I felt. I told him I felt great except for a little discomfort around that place where the sun never shines. That reminded me of my last thoughts before going under so I reached up, grasped my doctor by the collar and pulling his face down close to mine. In an almost threatening tone I asked him, “Did you leave me alone with Hector at any time during the procedure?” The doctor looked puzzled but he assured me that he hadn’t. When I let him go the doctor said he had good news. My colon was fine and there was no evidence of any malignancy.
“Thanks doc,” I said. Then I asked him to do me a favor. “Please tell my wife…”
“I’ve already given her the good news.” The doctor interrupted.
“No, not that.” I said, as I grabbed him by the collar and pulled him down close to my face again. “I want you to let her know that you’ve performed a very thorough inspection of my entire intestinal track and looked into every nook and cranny of my colon… Got that?” The doctor nodded that he did. “Okay, then I want you to tell her that you’ve found absolutely no evidence that I’ve ever had my head up my ass.”
THE END
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Dedicated to fellow writer Clarise.
Dear reader; this non-erotic short story is my first attempt at writing humor. If you want a little chuckle read on and then leave a comment to let me know what you think of my effort. If you are looking for something a little more sexually salacious, you might want to look at another offering and then come back when you are in the mood for humor.
In support and in solidarity, I dedicate this story to my friend and fellow writer, Clarise, who recently had one of her stories deleted. My Colonoscopy:
by Hardrive
After several weeks of complaining about stomach discomfort and constipation, my wife Rita got tired of my belly aching and called her fudge-packing brother for advice. That made a lot of sense. After all, who better to ask about asshole problems than your queer brother? Woops, did I say queer? I meant to say Homo-American. Anyway, Rita said her brother recommended I go see a gastroenterologist for a full evaluation.
“What?” I asked, “An ass-hole-enter what? That doesn’t even sound like a real doctor. It’s probably some kind of voodoo fag doctor.”
“No, you homophobic ignore-anus” came Rita’s cynical reply. “A gas-tro-enter-ologist, is a doctor that specializes in disorders of the digestive system. My brother is a well regarded general practitioner and if he says you should have a full evaluation of your intestinal track, that’s exactly what you’re going to do. It’s high time someone looks up your stupid ass to see what kind of problems you’ve got brewing up there.”
“Oh, really,” I said, mocking her sarcastic tone, “Since you insist I need to have my colon examined by a doctor, I guess you’re finally ready to admit you’ve been wrong about me all these years.” Rita’s perplexed expression indicated that she had no idea what I was talking about, so I explained. “You’re always saying that I have my head stuck up my ass.” Rita nodded in agreement. “Well,” I said with a smug smile, “if my head was really up my ass why would we need to hire a doctor to see what’s wrong… I could see it for myself.”
I thought that was hilarious, so I slapped my wife’s butt and did a little victory jig while laughing my head off. Rita wasn’t amused.
“Oh, you can’t take it when I get the upper hand.” I started to mock her. “You think you and that fairy brother of yours are so much smarter than me. Just ‘cause I don’t have a fancy college education don’t mean that I can’t tell when you’re trying to pull my leg. There is no such thing as an ass-hole-enter-whatever, So, go ahead and make an appointment with your made-up doctor. I dare you.” Rita just gave me an icy stare, smiled and walked away.
A week later we were sitting at the doctor’s office listening to him explain why I needed to have a colonoscopy. I told the doc I’ve never heard of a cola-ass-copy and had no idea what he was talking about. The doctor picked up a book with full color illustrations and used it to thoroughly explain the procedure. Pointing to the interior of the large intestine he indicated the areas that he wanted to examine and photograph.
Nodding thoughtfully, I pretended to understand what he was talking about and asked a question or two that was intended to display my advanced knowledge of medical terms. “Will you be using an x-ray camera or an MIR to photograph my inners?
The doctor smiled. “No, we use a flexible hose to guild a miniature camera through your anus and into the full length of your large intestine.” Then he showed me a picture of a little camera attached to a very long black hose.
Hell no! I said to myself. I won’t even let my family doctor check my prostate, so there was no way this joker was going to shove a big old hose up my ass. Looking around the office I spotted the door, popped up out of my seat and began to vigorously shake the doctor’s hand while I thank him profusely for wonderful presentation. The doctor seemed confused and tired to interrupt me several times but I just continued to pump his hand while backing up towards the door. My plan was working just fine and I actually got to openthe door open and had one foot over the threshold before my wife decided to intervene.
Now at this point I’d like to pause to give my male readers some advice. Never marry a stout, red headed woman of Italian-Irish descent. That combination gives them a split personality that makes Bruce Banner’s transformation into the Hulk look like a mild eccentricity. In public she tries to maintain the illusion that she is the devoted wife and I’m the boss in our relationship… but in reality she calls all the shots and only lets me do what she wants me to do.
In public she always agrees with me but she uses a code to let me know what she really wants. Whenever she smiles and says ‘Yes dear’ while putting the accent on the ‘yes’ but elongating the ‘dear,’ that means that if I even think about doing what I want, she’ll make my life a living hell. And let me tell you, when my wife says ‘living hell’ she’s not talking about Dante’s little cake walk through the seven levels of the fiery pit. She’s talking about providing me with my own personal apocalypse. Believe me, when it comes to pursuing a vengeful agenda, my wife puts Captain Ahab to shame.
In this case she was determined that I was going to have that colonoscopy, so she moved quickly to intercept me at the door. Putting her arm around me in a very loving way, she smiled at the doctor while she worked her hand under my coat and up to my neck. Putting me in her version of the Vulcan death grip, Rita paralyzed my body. When the doctor noticed that my expression suddenly went blank, he asked if there was something wrong. All I could do was move my head left to right as Rita manipulated the back of my neck. When he asked if he could schedule my procedure, I wanted to say hell no but I found myself nodding ‘yes.’ Then, when the doctor smiled and said goodbye, Rita squeezed the nerves in my neck so hard that my pained grimmest looked like I was smiling back.
By the time we left the doctor’s office, I was feeling dizzy. Leaning against Rita, we walked over to the discharge nurse who gave us the doctor’s instructions and a prescription for a product called ‘Koli-Kleen.’ The nurse said I was to drink two doses of Koli-kleen the night prior to the colonoscopy. What she didn’t tell us was that using that product was going to be, without doubt, the most gruesome part of the whole procedure.
I didn’t know it then but a week after my colonoscopy I did a google search and found that Koli-Kleen is sold in the United States as a prescription laxative, but it was originally developed during world war two by the Gestapo. The Germans called it Magen-buster and used it to get prisoners to voluntarily run into gas chambers they mislabeled “Latrines.” After the war, the Russians developed the formula into a WMD or Weapon of Mass Defecation. When the cold war ended, the KBG sold the formula to the CIA who used it in Guantanamo as an interrogation aid. It was reported that the CIA had a lot of success getting even the most resistant terrorist to literally spill their guts, but when the UN found it was being used on the prisoners, they banned its use as inhumane and a serious breach of the Geneva Convention.
Considering the nefarious history of this product, it was beyond my comprehension how any Pharmaceutical Company could get it approved by the FDA for sale to the American public. But then I saw the outrages price on the insurance company’s invoice and my question was answered.
I was totally ignorant of all that before the colonoscopy so I spent the week prior to the procedure nervously worrying about the ‘big fat hose’ and never gave a second thought to the hellish experience that awaited me on the night before.
When the time came for me to get ready, I read the instructions. Step one said that 12 hours prior to the colonoscopy I shouldn’t take any solid foods by mouth. That kind of confused me since taking solid foods by mouth was the only way I knew how to do that. Anyway, by supper time I was pretty hungry so the wife suggested I try some chicken broth. I love chicken soup but chicken broth was a big disappointment. It is nothing more than hot salty water with a little food coloring. The only chicken you’ll find in chicken broth is the word “chicken” printed on the box.
But I digress… the second step was to try and drink the first dose of Koli-Kleen. I say try because the stuff tastes like industrial grade toilet cleaner. The pharmacist recommended the lemon flavored product but I can tell you right now that the lemon flavoring in that noxious concoction does absolutely nothing to mask its totally disgusting taste. In fact, to this day I still can’t look at a lemon without getting the dry heaves.
The instructions warned that After drinking the first dose I might experience some gastric discomfort followed by a loose bowel movement. That was a gross understatement. What the instructions should have said was that after taking Koli-Kleen, my guts would heave, toss and turn like a small boat caught in a typhoon and that shortly thereafter, everything in my stomach would simultaneously attempt to abandon ship through the stern of my little brown boat.
Holy Crap, that stuff works fast. It may not be written on the box but I believe that one of Koli-Kleen’s chief ingredients is rocket fuel. I say that because when that stuff kicks in, your colon ignites and the full content of your alimentary canal is explosively jettisoned out of your ass with such force that, unless you hold on to the toilet seat, it’s possible that your body could be propelled into low earth orbit.
Needless to say, I spent the whole night sitting on the toilet and nervously waiting for the many intestinal eruptions that followed. Whenever I felt my gut begin to rumble I shut my eyes, held on to the toilet seat and did a short count-down as my rocket powered ass violently sprayed whatever was in my guts into the crapper.
This went on for hours until my intestines were totally empty and I had nothing more to give. By then it was time to drink the second round of Koli-Kleen, and to my absolute amazement, the process started all over again. I couldn’t believe it possible that there was anything left in me to expel, but apparently I was wrong.
My only explanation for this extraordinary phenomenon is that the second dose of Koli-Kleen must have the ability to tap into the spiritual realm, locate my long dead ancestors and channel the festering content of their ancient intestines through my flaming ass-hole and into the commode.
And that leads us to a subject that isn’t covered by the Koli-Kleen instructions. I’m talking about the smell. Oh my god the smell is incredible.
Let’s face it, you can’t flush out the rotting content of someone’s intestine without creating some serious atmospheric pollution. You’re probably going to think I’m exaggerating but things got so bad at my house, that I actually saw lines of staggering insects abandoning the residence. I also witness our house plants literally wither and die right before my eyes. Even the plastic plants keeled over. Rita could attested to all this but she barricaded herself in the guestroom, stuffed towels into the crack under the door, and refused to come out until it was time to go to the clinic.
Needless to say, by the end of the evening I was exhausted. All that running back and forth to the bathroom left my legs feeling like the rubbery limbs of a punch drunk boxer, and my asshole like the business end of a blow torch. That night, after pushing several ice cubes up my raw pucker, I finally passed out and slept like a very tired and dehydrated baby.
The next morning my wife got me up at what is known in military time as “oh five hundred hours.” The “oh” stands for; “Oh my God, I can’t believe it’s still dark.” Anyway, when we arrived at the clinic we thought, since they wanted us there at the crack of dawn, that they intended to begin the procedure right away. We were wrong. Instead they had us filling out forms for hours. The frustrating part is that they had me answering questions I’ve already answered hundreds of times before. What the hell do they do with all that information? Obviously they don’t keep it or they wouldn’t need to ask the same dam questions over and over again.
When I was finished with the questioner the nurse brought in the consent form and asked me to sign. After looking it over I told her that I couldn’t possible sign it. She asked me why and I told her that just over the signature line there was a statement that said that I understood and agreed to all the terms, conditions and provisions stated therein. The document was twelve pages long and written in a Pig-Latin dialect of legalize that was so convoluted and incomprehensible that even my lawyer’s lawyer couldn’t have understood it.
The nurse looked at me and smiled. Then she told me I could take all the time I needed to read the consent forms and I didn’t have to sign them until I fully understood what I was signing. However, she quickly added that if I didn’t have the form signed within the next five minutes she would have to reschedule my procedure.
That’s all she had to say. It took me about five seconds to sign the release and hand it to her. There was no way I was going to reschedule the colonoscopy knowing full well that I would have to go through the same gut-draining pre-procedure I went through the night before. I think the clinic counts on that reaction and that’s why they ask you to sign the consent form after you’ve had the Koli-Kleen experience.
A half hour after I finished the paper work, a very fruity looking male nurse named Hector, came for me. He gave my wife a wink, put his hand on my shoulder and walked around me without taking his hand off my body. Then he asked her a question in a very swishy Spanish accent. “Is this jew hombre?” My wife nodded while trying to contain a very smug smile. Hector returned her smile and said, “Ay que Lindo.” And they both began to giggle as Hector put his hand through my arm and walked me down the clinic’s main corridor. “Don jew warry lindo,” he said as he snuggled up to me. “I will take berry good car of jew.”
Looking over my shoulder I made eye contact with my wife and with a sorrowful and plaintiff gaze I pleaded for her help, but Rita just smiled. It seemed to me that she was enjoying my predicament because all she did was hold up a box of Kolie-Kleen and gave me a looked that seemed to said… ‘are you sure you want to reschedule the procedure?
It was a long and uncomfortable walk to the prep-room, and when we got there Hector released my arm and handed me a plastic bag. He instructed me to go into a little room that had a curtain instead of a door. He asked me to take off all my clothes and put them in the bag. Then he handed me one of those hospital gowns. You know… the kind that is designed to strip you of all your dignity and make you feel more exposed and venerable then you’ve ever felt before.
After putting on the gown I noticed that my ass was hanging out of the back. Try as I might, I couldn’t stretch the cloth to cover my exposed behind. That’s when I saw Hector peeking through the curtains. The pervert was staring at my ass but when he saw me looking at him he smiled and asked if I was ready. Then he pushed a wheel chair into the room and with a big grin he patted the bench and told me to put my cute little tushie into the seat.
There was no way I was going to turn my bare bottom towards that flaming fruitcake so I just stood there looking at him. That’s when Hector decided to come around from behind the chair to help me get into the seat. It was more likely that he wanted to help himself into my seat, so as he approached, I clutched the back of my hospital gown and slowly backed away. Hector kept advancing and I kept retreating so we went around and around that wheelchair until I finally saw an opportunity to safely sit down.
The fruity nurse laughed, his very girly laugh, and called me a crazy gringo as he pushed my wheelchair into another room. There he tied a rubber tourniquet around my arm and tried to put an I.V. needle into the back of my hand. It only took him five tries, and while I would have normally fainted after the second attempt, there was no way I was going to allow myself to pass out while I was alone in the room with him. This was especially true after he started talking about the procedure. With a faraway and dreamy look in his eyes, he described the length and girth of the hose the doctor would be using… and then he said, “El doc-tor wheel e’put it in jew ass nice and e’slow. He wheel go in deeper and deeper. Ay bandito, It’z so beautiful I juice want to e’cry every time I thing about it.”
If I had any doubt about Hector’s sexual orientation, after listening to him describe the procedure, all my doubts were gone. Hector was what I called a real Granola Bar; flaky, fruity and nuts.
“listen up, Hector.” I said with my most manly voice. “There is no way that I am going to have sex with you.”
“What?” Hector said with a genuine look of surprise. Giving me a very stern look and with a very indignant voice he continued. “Is dat what jew ting? Will jew are so rung. Having sex wit jew is da last ting on my mine. DA LAST TING! No senor. First jew will half to ax me to dinner, and den to a show and den after dat….”
“Read my lips Hector… No Way!!!”
Hector looked disappointed so he changed the subject and asked me if I had taken the Koli-Kleen as proscribed. My revolted expression and the cold shiver that ran up and down my spine leaving my puckered face quivering with a look of pure disgust, told him all he needed to know.
“O’ I si, no juan e’toll jew?” The blank expression on my face let him know I had no idea what the hell he was talking about, so he went on. “Jew can e’take un poco de Tequila before jew drink that sheet. Dat e’helps it e’go down mucho more ezy.”
As soon as I figured out what he was trying to say, a light bulb went on over my head. What a great idea. I had a fully stocked bar at home and would have gladly downed a bottle of good Iris whisky if I had known it was okay to drink before taking that Koli-Krap. But then I started to imagine myself drunk and stumbling around the house, squirting and dripping all over the rug and the furniture. There was no way Rita would have cleaned up after me, and knowing her, she probably would have had no alternative but to shot me, torch the house for the insurance money and move down to Florida.
As Hector wheeled me into the procedure room I looked around nervously and saw the doctor and anesthesiologist standing there, but no sign of the dreaded “Big fat hose.” No doubt they planed on bringing it in after I was asleep. That sounded like such a waste of Anastasia. Not because I was so brave that I didn’t need it, but because all they would have had to do was to show me that “big fat hose” and I would have passed out on my own.
Before putting me under, the doctor had me roll over on my side, pull up my knees and count backward from a hundred. As I started to count I heard someone, standing behind me and singing with a swishy Spanish accent. To my great horror I realized it was Hector. He was standing behind me while he sang ”I fee pretty” from ‘West Side Story.’ Oh my god, that raving queen was going to be in the room while I was laying there unconscious and my naked butt exposed.
With my last once of strength I looked up at the doctor and with pleading eyes begged him. “Please shot me now before I pass out from the anesthesia,” but no such luck. The room went dark and the next thing I knew I was waking up in the recovery room, still feeling high from the drugs they gave me.
The first thing I saw was my doctor’s smiling face. He looked down at me and asked how I felt. I told him I felt great except for a little discomfort around that place where the sun never shines. That reminded me of my last thoughts before going under so I reached up, grasped my doctor by the collar and pulling his face down close to mine. In an almost threatening tone I asked him, “Did you leave me alone with Hector at any time during the procedure?” The doctor looked puzzled but he assured me that he hadn’t. When I let him go the doctor said he had good news. My colon was fine and there was no evidence of any malignancy.
“Thanks doc,” I said. Then I asked him to do me a favor. “Please tell my wife…”
“I’ve already given her the good news.” The doctor interrupted.
“No, not that.” I said, as I grabbed him by the collar and pulled him down close to my face again. “I want you to let her know that you’ve performed a very thorough inspection of my entire intestinal track and looked into every nook and cranny of my colon… Got that?” The doctor nodded that he did. “Okay, then I want you to tell her that you’ve found absolutely no evidence that I’ve ever had my head up my ass.”
THE END
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