I was somewhere on the well-traveled road between sobriety and forgetting my name when I made the decision to get my colon cleansed. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Then again, a lot of things seem like a good idea when you're having National Bohemian Ice beer for breakfast.

There was no physical reason for me to do it. My gastrointestinal system was running like a fine-tuned machine, I was very regular, and, aside from a few alcohol-related breakdowns here and there, my rectum had always been a loyal soldier.

The medical community didn't appear to be too high on high colonics (or "colon hydrotherapy," as it's called these days) either. Despite what all those New Age a-holes who emerge from a cleansing claiming to be cancer-free, six pounds lighter, and twenty-seven cents richer would have us believe, most reputable doctors consider colonics a colossal waste (pardon the pun) of money. It seems whatever fecal debris and bacteria are removed during the procedure are replaced the very next time you eat.

So just why was I going to shell out fifty clams for such a meaningless and humiliating procedure? Pure and simple, I was doing it for the humor. Something about the idea of willingly ramming a plastic hose up my wazoo, flushing out yards of dirt-chute with a warm jet of water, and lying on my back spread-eagle as a torrent of dislodged fecal barnacles passed through a clear tube before my eyes struck me as funny.

To a lesser extent, I was doing it for art's sake. At the time I was writing a series called The Cheap Beer Chronicles and I thought, "What better way to educate and entertain my vulgar and cretinous readers than by having my excretory canal irrigated while half-bagged on Natty Boh Ice?".

So I like to think my heart was in the right place.

If only my head had been.

A disturbing amount of time and energy went into preparing for my Thursday night appointment with Melodie, a licensed colon hydrotherapist. Hours of thought alone went into crafting a diet sure to make her earn every goddamn cent of that $50. This was what I came up with: on Tuesday, forty-eight hours before my appointment, I dined exclusively on constipatory binding agents. We're talking cheeses (extra sharp), bananas, Wonder Bread, a Chinese buffet, and of course Natty Boh Ice (to provide both dehydration and psychological numbness). With this spackly foundation emulsifying inside me, I introduced the instruments of visual comedy into my diet on Wednesday: corn, unchewed peanuts, carrots, and a 2003 dime. Finally, on Thursday afternoon, I induced what my uncle with his third grade education calls the "sloppy ploppies" by fortifying myself with my reigning triumvirate of bowel-loosening agents: a glass of apple juice, a shot of my infant daughter's stool softening powder, and more Boh Ice.

Another time-consuming chore was finding just the right pair of undies for this demanding project. An exhaustive search of my underwear drawer yielded only one article that hadn't suffered holes, fraying, a nasty skidmark, or the indignity of being killed in the line of dooty: a new pair of boxer-briefs I called "Under Boy". On the job only a few weeks, Under Boy didn't have nearly as much asstime as some of the older, more experienced veterans on my undergarment force, but he came from a sterling Hanes pedigree. It was time for Under Boy to earn his proverbial stripes.

My final task before my appointment was perhaps the most important: a much-needed anal makeover. Just hours before my appointment, I took a razor to my "nappy-headed hose" (to paraphrase a recently unemployed radio personality) with trembling hands and shaved down. A thoroughly shocking, demoralizing harvest of ripe dingleberries and a partially-clogged drain were my reward. A soapy digit that shall forever remain nameless then performed the thankless task of polishing my freshly depilatated ring.

That ugliness behind me (literally), I squatted over a mirror to inspect my handiwork. What smiled back at me was not pretty. I stifled a gag, then began chuckling softly. The evening forecast: torrential brownpours with hazy memories and a 100% chance of pain.

It was showtime.

---

Since my girlfriend had made it abundantly clear she wanted nothing to do with this project, I enlisted Chris, my resident partner in grime, to drive my impaired ass to Melodie's (or "brown zero", as we called it) and witness the carnage. Festivities such as these were right up his alley, and he accepted, albeit a little too enthusiastically for my taste. Anyway, the ride was disgraceful -- from the way he sang Brown Sugar the whole way there to the way he kept calling my project "a crapshoot", it was just one juvenile, scatological double entendre after another. I think he stayed up all night Wednesday working on material. The sign in front of Melodie's that read "Parking in Rear" sent Chris into a wave of hysterics.

"Bottoms up! HAHAHAHAHA!!" the sniggering chimp cried out as he parked the car.

I wasn't in a frame of mind for jokes at this point. I was all about taking care of business.

It was time to get my feek on.

We went inside.

Melodie's waiting room and I had three things in common:

1. It was well-lit.
   
   
2. It was warm and stuffy. (I was feeling a little feverish and quite bloated on the ride over.)
   
   
3. It was congested. Besides Chris and the male receptionist, there were two other people I presumed to be clients seated around the room -- an attractive young woman in a college sorority sweatshirt and a big fat guy of about forty.

I checked in with the receptionist. "All right, go on and have a seat. Melodie will be with you shortly. We're just a little backed up right now."

Steeled with the arrogant self-confidence that only eight cans of Natty Boh Ice can provide, I replied, "I guess that makes two of us." The receptionist smiled, but I could tell he hated himself for it.

I sat down in the only available seat, next to the fat guy. Chris was already deeply invested in a pamphlet titled What Would Your Colon Say If It Could Talk?... 'I'm A Toxic Waste Dump!' So I picked up a magazine.

I became aware that something was wrong shortly thereafter. The bloating in my stomach was now accompanied by sharp abdominal cramps and loud, ominous gurglings. In the depths, something was stirring.

As a precautionary measure, I quietly asked the receptionist where the bathroom was. He pointed to a door not two feet from where sorority girl sat. Damn it, I thought. Even with a belly full of liquid courage, the door's proximity to potential earwitnesses was not within my comfort zone. I tried to remain calm, lest a surge of adrenaline transform a smoldering fire into an inferno.

"Thanks," I whispered. I returned to my seat and the three R's -- reading, writhing, and rhythmic bowel convulsions. Sure, I was taking a risk; but as Kenny Rogers sang in The Gambler:

You've got to know when to hold 'em...

And hold 'em I would, because I knew Under Boy had my back(side) and... I had an ace up my pantsleeve. Years of covert farting had enabled me to perfect the noise-muffling, pressure-relieving maneuver known in less-refined circles as "The One Cheek-Sneak". With just the slightest shift in asscheek leverage, I leaned away from my portly seatmate and released a warm zephyr of gas that noiselessly radiated through Under Boy's tightly woven fibers.

Unfortunately, the one inherent weakness in The One Cheek-Sneak is that while it may contain the sound, it does little to contain the fury.

I had unleashed The Fog.

The smell was, quite simply, abominable. Composed of stale beer, fermented sewage, and such vile gases as sphinctogen, assonia, methanium, and sulfurion-29, the putrid stench engulfed the room, gaining strength as it bullied oxygen and other weaker gases out of its way. I nervously glanced around the room to see how my compatriots were coping.

Surprisingly, my seatmate and sorority girl betrayed no discomfort and remained stoic. They either had incredible strength of will, no nasal receptors, or had merely been shocked into a state of incredulous silence.

Chris, on the other hand, put on a sickening display of theatrics. His mouth curled in a sneer, his nostrils flaring like an overworked bloodhound's, he muttered, "Jesus..." and began fanning his pamphlet under his nose while staring at me with unbridled joy in his eyes. I wished sinus cancer upon him.

The Fog's release did little to alleviate my discomfort. No matter how I clenched, puckered, breathed, or contorted my body, the intestinal distress continued. To make matters worse, the bathroom was even more off-limits now, since it wouldn't take a corn rocket scientist to deduce who Abraham Stinkin', Emancipator of The Fog, was, were I to go in there.

As my bubbling cauldron continued to percolate, haunting images of past brownouts invaded my thoughts: the ugliness that transpired at my friend's college graduation; the assplosion outside that Exxon's locked bathroom door; the deplorable episode that will forever live in the annals of Sears Portrait Studio lore...

A stream of sweat large enough to irrigate a small turnip farm trickled down my butt cleavage. With no hair to sop it up, it settled in Under Boy's absorbent embrace. There was a Medal of Honor awaiting Under Boy when this was all over.

...know when to fold 'em...

It was time for this gambler to face facts. I was sitting on a quadruple flush, but the game was up. I had to throw in my cards. I needed to man up, walk into that bathroom, own up to The Fog, and...

"Mike? I'm ready for you now."

Sweet salvation in the form of an attractive brunette!!

...know when to walk away...

I gingerly got up from my chair and followed Melodie to the end of the hallway with the ridiculous, short-stepped, stiff-legged gait indigenous to those who are mere moments from woefully putting the "dung" in "dungarees".

...know when to run!!!!!

"If you'll go in there, Mike, take off your clothes and put on this gown, I'll be with you in just--"

"We need to hurry," I rasped through clenched teeth.

Whether it was the crazed look in my bloodshot eyes, the feverish pace at which I tore at my clothes, or the way Chris kept saying I was about to "light this place up", Melodie instinctively recognized the potential for an explosive act worthy of Bowel Qaeda. She sprang into action. Firing up the hydro-propulsion crapparatus with a sense of urgency rarely seen in the pseudo-medical profession, Melodie instructed me to lie down on an inclined table, my legs apart, knees up, and with my filth nozzle centered over the porcelain basin at the base of the table. Chris guffawed loudly and said, "I hope your brown eye ain't near-sighted." I wished anal polyps on him.

Melodie then handed me a plastic tube about a thick as a pencil (a #2 pencil, of course) and some lube. She good-naturedly volunteered her insertion services, an offer I declined out of concern for her safety and well-being. Then, without a moment's hesitation, I cheerfully broke my anal cherry by ramming the tube a good one-and-a-half to two inches into my shitlocker.

Soon a warm jet of water was working its way up my lower intestines. I could finally relax.

While Melodie began massaging my swelling belly, Chris happily engaged her in a discourse about the inner workings of the rectum and its various valves, including something Melodie referred to as the "ring of Houston".

"Ring of Houston, huh?" he said. I could see the wheels spinning behind his demented eyes. "Well, my boy here's got a Houston oiler or two for ya! HAHAHA!!" The sonuvabitch was having the time of his life.

Minutes passed. Meanwhile, I had a high-pressure system rapidly gaining strength in my distended gut. Entering my fourth trimester, I was retaining water like a menstruating camel. The bloating was really getting intense, my body was sweltering, and I felt light-headed. It didn't take a corn rocket scientist to deduce that if something didn't happen soon, I'd be leaving Melodie's on a gurney.

"Sorry to interrupt, but how much water has to go in before we pull the tube out?" I meekly inquired.

"You don't pull the--" Melodie gasped. "Honey, aren't you pushing out at all?"

"Am I supposed to be?" I groaned.

"YES!!!"

My mind instantly flooded with three questions: 1) Won't the poop fly up into the tube? 2) How is it supposed to fight the raging current going in? And 3), Are you going to be standing RIGHT THERE??!! But I couldn't wait for answers. With one ear-popping heave, the mudgates burst open. Wave after scorching wave of molten gore plowed through my lower tract as if it were a putrescent water slide.

And the sounds! Those godawful sounds! The soft, steady hum of the Sphinctometer 6000's pump didn't provide nearly enough white noise to drown out my brown noise. All conversation ceased as thirty-plus years of deeply-ingrained fart-muffling conditioning went out the window. A rippling cascade of freakishly bubbly farts of incredible volume and duration pierced the night, while projectile liqui-shit began caroming off the porcelain trough/echo chamber with frightening velocity. Melodie kept assuring me that this gruesome symphony was "All right" which, of course, only made it worse. The fact that each shredding salvo met with the retort of Chris's howling laughter also did little to allay my disgrace. It was humiliating beyond words.

Once he calmed down enough to speak, Chris decided to tell Melodie about the revolting fart I'd fumigated her waiting room with. "I was gonna light a match," he said, "but it would have been like storming the beaches at Normandy armed with a spoon. HAHAHA!!" I wished amoebic dysentery on him.

Melodie laughed. "Sounds like a crime of pushin' if you ask me!"

Et tu, Melodie?

After a few more contractions, my confidence soared and my dignity hit rock bottom, and I found my rhythm. Now it was time to enjoy the payoff for all my blood, sweat, and beers. I directed my full attention to what appeared to be one of those tubes hamsters run in, backlit by yellow light for optimal viewing pleasure. This is where the running of the stools would take place. I couldn't wait to see the spectacular kaleidoscope of... What's this...? A few tufts of black grass...? A ribbon of partially-digested squash...? A quart of yellow sluice...? Where the hell are the angry colon hoagies? The corn-eyed butt vipers? The Mongolian beef grenades? More importantly, where the hell was that dime?!!

Melodie explained that the lack of solid particulate suggested I was very dehydrated, and that some clients needed multiple treatments before they were "completely flushed of impacted waste". More treatments? Yeah, I thought, right after I have unprotected dungeon sex with my dad.

While I waited in vain for the litter of flush puppies that never came, Melodie wistfully reminisced about some of the stranger things she'd seen belched from various clients' colons over the years: rocks, pennies, rings, and an assortment of long-forgotten childhood relics. I shuddered with dread as I tried to recall whether my Mom said it was me or my sister who had swallowed the bayonet-wielding plastic army soldier in our youth.

By the end I was straining for all I was worth, bearing down with capillary-bursting, white-knuckled intensity. The nasty yellow muck gave way to clear water and we decided to wrap things up. But not before I hazarded a glance under my gown, where a slick of oily crap was encrusting on my legs. This may sound cliché, but it looked like the Exxon Bowel-dez had run aground on my inner thighs.

Despite my sore abdominal muscles, lighter wallet, and prolapsed rectum, I staggered out of Melodie's with a strange sense of euphoria. Say what you will about colonics, but having your ass take a piss in front of a cackling hyena and a complete stranger can be very liberating. Plus, Chris and I were able to take our friendship to a whole new level. I ask you: what builds more intimate bonds than sharing your deepest, darkest, smelliest secrets with someone?

And, of course, Under Boy had proven himself to be a valuable grime fighter in the field. Sure, a small backdoor slider may have seeped into his overtaxed pores on the way home, but it was nothing five trips through the rinse cycle couldn't heal. He'd be back on the force in no time.

As for me, one year later, I'm still hoping that one day I'll hear the soft plink of a 2003 dime nestling against my toilet bowl... so I can place it firmly in Chris's palm.