So the other day the ex-wife and I have an argument. Shocking, I know.  Just as the fun filled conversation of disagreement comes to a close, she quickly sneaks in one more thing… to really end it all on a high note.  She simply adds that I am “full of shit”. Perhaps she meant it in a metaphorical way, but me, being the smart ass that I am, decided to show her a thing or two, and the next day I scheduled myself an appointment with the ass-douching doctor, or in more professional terms, A Colonic Therapist. Yes, that’s right. I went and did the hydro-colon-therapy thing, or is it Colon Hydrotherapy?  Let me be the first to tell you that it is anything but therapeutic!!! I need to seek additional counseling for what I’m about to share with you next.

We’ve all got our big boy/girl pants on right? Perhaps this is the wrong expressive term I want to use here… what I’m getting at is this is a safe environment to share big people things and not be ridiculed for them, right?


Now, I don’t know if any of you have ever done this before, but let me tell you its not anything I recommend. First off, they put you in this gown that would maybe cover a tall toddler. Then you find yourself sitting on a table made for said toddler, covered in plastic and 19 feet of butcher paper, with your ass hanging all out and if you’re lucky enough to be a guy, which when last I checked, I am, you get to have your teabag on full display for the physician’s viewing pleasure! It’s an embarrassment of riches I assure you.

Anyway, I figured the worst it could be, is some old polish war vet named Edna would just walk in, her 5 o’clock shadow rusted from a mixture of the moisture in the room, and the half eaten, well lit cigar hanging from the corner of her hair lipped mouth.  She’d have not one, but two hooks for a hands. Not the new 3D printed kind made from some space age plastic and actually have some type of functionality, but the old school prototype stainless steel kind made from metal hooks and strapped on with enough leather and buckles to make for a nice prop in a 50 Shades of Shit sequel.  

Sorry I got lost there. Back to reality.

So here I am on the table. To say I feel exposed is maybe the understatement of the year, when to my surprise, in walks the mother of my ex girlfriend! I wasn’t sure which end to cover first but after a few minutes of her telling me she’s a professional, I thought, “I’m already here… and who am I to stop a good dinner conversation from happening?” Then another thought crept into my sad excuse for a brain, “So this is what she went to that Technical school for?! Nine months of schooling, just to insert plastic pipes into grown men’s asses!?”

So after we got the How do you do’s and professional courtesies out of the way we continued on with what I’m quickly regretting I signed up for in the first place. 

Now, what happens next is the unthinkable. The best way to describe this is: Have you ever had a hole in a garden hose? You know, when you turn the water on in this little vertical piss spout shoots up about 6 or so feet, depending on the amount of pressure? Well, imagine having your back door ever so gently doused with a concoction of herbs and H20 and on its return trip out, the hose springs a leak!

*SNIFF, SNIFF* “Oh Dear Lord, that doesn’t smell good.” I think as the aroma begins to penetrate the room.

Now, here’s the shocking part. She, the physician/ex-girlfriend’s mom, who I’m sure can’t wait to go home and say to the ex-girlfriend, “Was it the lazy grooming that lead to the brake-up?” …she has one hand gripping the hose firmly placed where the sun doesn’t shine, while sliding on her wheeled stool to try and stomp on the leak that has so violently sprung.  She says to me casually, “Ohh, we have a leak. Don’t worry, this happens all the time.” Now, this is where I turn my head and look because I KNOW she’s not talking about a leak in the hose that has anus juice flowing through it. Yep she is, and it has a 15 FOOT ARCH ON IT. As I look around, I notice a second leak, and think that now is the time to shut down and go home. As you can imagine, by now the smell is getting worse, so bad it’s to the point where I want to vomit, and well, I do. I’m pretty sure that even if you got the combined forces of Glade, Lysol, and anything else the lovely people at Johnson and Johnson can fragrance up in a can, even they could not cover up the smell of what is taking place here.

Immediately after I get sick, the physician loses her chicken salad, or what looked to be chicken salad at one point. Of course I jumped out of the way, fearing I might get chicken salad puke on my legs, bringing with me a few feet of that table paper. That could have been the dumbest thing I have ever done in my life, because what happened next happened so fast that I’m not even sure of the order in which the events took place. She puked, I jumped, hose in ass falls out, poop sprays out all over the place, she screams, I scream. Upon hearing the screaming, another physician/therapist opened the door only to get what I can only describe as the exorcist puke from a good 20 feet away on her. The room now looks like a blood splatter murder room form Dexter, only instead of red, it’s brown.

I’m guessing most people in a predicament such as this would probably take the time to at least grab their clothes before running away from the most embarrassing moment in their life, but not I. Just me in my toddler gear and paper cape went running out of that place so fast I could’ve had Olympic athletes still chasing me to this day to bring me a gold medal!

So, I’m sure my reading audience is wondering why on God’s green earth would I share something so embarrassing, so nasty, so, well… what’s the word I’m looking for?

Oh yes, FAKE!

I’ll tell you why, because I get bored at work and I decided to make something up. This is the kind of caliber of storytelling you can expect to read from yours truly! Are you brave enough to continue?

Now I’m sure I’ll get a lot of responses for this one, so in my defense I’m not all there. I bumped my head a few times in my youth. Well, not just in my youth, and I think the doctor said something about wearing a helmet but when your this ugly you don’t want to draw attention to yourself by putting a helmet on. Those are for certain kinds of people and I don’t mean Spaceballs.

Enjoy this or don’t, but do it fast because if anyone related to me reads this, and if I survive the beating, and the embarrassment I have brought to my family, I’ll probably be asked to take this one down.


The Angry Ginger