Suppositories: The Violation You'll Be Happy About
A few months ago, I began having a rather annoying problem. Every time I dropped the kids off at the pool, any subsequent walking would cause me first to itch, then to burn, and then to bleed.
It wasn't any sort of internal bleeding; it was coming right from the ring of fire itself. When I made it back to the throne and re-wiped, I would discover a repulsive mixture of blood and excrement that looked as bad as it smelled. This went on for longer than it should have, mainly because I figured it would go away on its own, and also because I don't like doctors. But once it started getting worse, I gave in and sought medical attention.
It's not the size -- it's the fact that it goes IN where everything else goes OUT.
One thing led to another, and after a chain of referrals and a flurry of paperwork, I found myself at the ass doctor. He and his two female assistants violated me with everything from warm water to a digital video camera (and I think they may also have poked some golf balls up there, just to amuse themselves).
And when the ordeal was over, they handed me a brochure: Anal Fissures: What You Should Know. Then they let me put my pants back on and told me to wait in a conference room for a chat with the doctor.
While I was waiting, I got to read the horrifically frightening and horrendously graphic details of my ailment. In the simplest sense, anal fissures are cuts or tears in the anus that cause pain or bleeding. Acute fissures are no big deal, and happen to any of us from time to time. But chronic fissures -- like mine, I supposed -- are a different story.
There were a variety of treatments, the most extreme of which is something called "anal dilation" -- as near as I can tell, this procedure entails wedging the patient's ass open with a tire jack to allow a group of midgets to climb inside and paint graffiti on the intestinal walls.
After a few moments of gap-mouthed page turning, the doctor arrived. He explained that although I wouldn't need any surgery at this point, there were a few "measures" I'd need take to ensure recovery. After describing the changes necessary in my dietary and bathing habits, he gave me the news that I would need to start using suppositories. The conversation went like this:
DOCTOR: So you'll need to start using suppositories.
ME: What does that mean?
DOCTOR: Well, they're made out of a salve that will heal the fissures. They're shaped kind of like a bowling pin...
ME: Whoa, doc. Find another way to put that.
DOCTOR: Okay, they're kind of round on one end, and you insert that end into your rectum. They go up there and melt, so the next time you have a bowel movement, your skin is protected.
ME: I see. So you just stick it up there and forget about it?
DOCTOR: Yep. Fire and forget. Kind of like a Stinger missile.
ME: Has anyone ever told you that you have a way with analogies?
On my way back from his office, I stopped off at a drug store and found the appropriate aisle. I stood before the shelf and examined my options, looking for the particular brand my doctor wanted me to use. To my absolute horror, an attractive twenty-something girl walked up and began looking at the hair care products tragically located on the adjacent shelf. I could feel her eyes flicker down to my ass in horror as I grabbed what could only have been the Super-Extended-Family-Size package. After a brief judgmental look from the cashier, I pigeon-walked home.
As prescribed by my doctor, I warily went back into the bathroom an hour after my next bowel movement. The instructions on the package were perfectly straightforward; even though what they were instructing ran counter to everything I've ever been taught to do with my ass.
If I wrapped this around my chest I'd look like Chewbacca.
My suppositories weren't shaped like bowling pins so much as bullets, and the fact that their side-by-side packaging made them resemble a bandoleer only added to the visual effect and rectal anguish. I did the deed -- and remarkably, not long after, the itching and burning was no longer itching and burning. I did tend to fart a bit more, but the farts actually helped to coat my rectum with the lubricant.
However, I noticed the real difference next time I crapped. It was totally effortless and pain-free -- as if I'd somehow dipped my turd in butter. Months of physical torment were over. However, the psychological difficulties and moral dilemmas were only beginning.
A few days later, curious about the magical workings of my new best friend, I picked up the box and read the ingredients. The first one was cocoa butter -- 85.5%. Sounds good. Cocoa butter has remarkable properties to heal cuts and minimize scars. Phenylephrine HCl -- 0.25%. I'm not sure what that is, but I think its in soft drinks, and everyone loves soft drinks. But then I saw it: shark liver oil -- 3.0%.
Alternating waves of horror and guilt swept over me. I don't think sharks can live without livers any more than I can. What a horrible act of disrespect by mankind! Sharks have existed for hundreds of millions of years. They are a pinnacle of oceanic evolution. And what do we do with them? We kill them and smear their remains on our irritated asses!
What was wrong with making this product from vegetable oil? Cottonseed oil? Margarine? I want to meet the guy who came up with this. I'm willing to bet that he commutes to work in an monster truck powered by whale blubber, wears a coat of baby seal fur, has dolphin-salad sandwiches for lunch, and wipes his ass with walrus pelts.
My daily insertions have changed from a moment of ecstasy to one of guilt. While I am more than happy to have my leaky faucet fixed, I can't help but think: how many sharks had to die to protect my anus from its own waste?