On several occasions when I have been terribly constipated and awaiting that moment of blissful release, I have suffered the yin and yang, or poop and pain, of life. Yes, eventually that moment of magical
shrroooom comes -- but then another sensation enters my awareness as I sit struggling not to squeeze, waiting for sphincter action to hit my out box.
I remember well the first time: nothing but turd teasers had come to the show. As I tried to think of something else other than the expected big splash I became aware that something warm was running out of my holiest of holes and it was definitely not the hard turd nuggets originally emanating from there. I lifted up slightly and peeked into the cauldron; but because of my many microdumps, I did not notice anything. Eventually I gave up, as we all must do when our hopes for a larger emission remain unfulfilled. Not until I finally wiped did a terrible spasm of fear hit me -- I mean, if I had not already deshitted myself I would have reshitted if anything more was readily available.
To my horror, what I discovered was a massive amount of blood soaking the paper. I mean, a really large amount of MY blood -- the worst kind to see -- in my hand. I was shit-shocked, shit-faced, and shit-scared. Worse yet, I realized blood was still oozing out as my focus shifted from my hand to my ass. I panicked, my heart rate jumped. What to do?? Was I at the brink of bleeding out, as they say on TV shows? Did I squeeze too hard and burst something? Should I run to a phone and call 911?
Well, the best fix I could think of was to let the cold water run and put wet pressure with a wad of paper on my seriously-enraged hole as I remained nervously standing. And sure enough, after what seemed like hours, repeated applications of cold wet paper stopped the bleeding. Eventually, as I recovered some tranquility, I looked down at the bowl. I had been tossing wad after water- and blood-soaked wad into it with my mind focused on blood-stopping. I had never flushed. What a crappy concoction filled the bowl. I hesitated. Would it all go down? What else to do but hope for a disappearing dump.
At first the bowl filled up, getting higher and higher. You may have experienced this moment, what the Greeks described as the peak being the moment of descent. Again I felt stressed. Would it stop rising? At the last possible moment before I would start running for something to catch the overflow, the wicked stew started to descend. Saved.
Of course, by now you enlightened poopers have said the obvious to yourselves: hemorrhoids! Sure, but I had surgery for those years earlier. I wanted to believe that this was a scatological fluke. But, sadly, this bloody event has happened at relatively infrequent but crappy intervals. My only answer is prevention: never get badly plugged up. But constipation, regardless of fruit and vegetable consumption, is inevitable. It's God's will. What we must occasionally experience to better appreciate the joy of shitting is the grief of constipation.
To tell the truth, though, feeling my blood rolling out of my ass once or twice a year does not bother me all that much -- proving that you can get used to virtually any shitty thing. I mean, after all, if I enjoy releasing all my piss and shit, what's wrong with a little involuntary blood-letting now and then?
There was a time when my hemorrhoids disrupted my life. But then I capitulated. I fondly remember my hemorrhoid surgery; it was not as bad as I had expected. It was done by a Dr. Marlowe, and the sign in his office proudly proclaimed, "Marlowe's perfect assholes." Well, all's well that ends well. (Or should it be: all's well that empties well?) Sometimes you just have to pay a bloody high price to get your shit out. So I ask, poop-pals, what's the alternative?
