Not so great: scoped and doped

I’ve been a wanted man for over five years, running from doctors all over Seattle. At the mention of the word colonoscopy, I would pucker and retract like a defiant sea anemone.

My last doctor instilled no confidence whatsoever. He had W.C. Fields facial features and a Parkinson’s-like tremor. I could not take my eyes off of his red glowing nose and couldn’t get the image of killer clown doctors out of my head. That’s when I went on the lam.This time, I tried to make some fake I.D. and pay someone else to go in my place. I had no takers so I decided to man up.

After surviving more than a decade in prison, who would have thought I would get violated well into this chapter of life as a normie.

My new doctor quickly suggested the dreaded C-word. My colonoscopy had come due.

The 36-hour fast prior to the procedure was no picnic. I was told to only drink from a giant jug of what is called, “Movie Prep.” It tasted and smelled like silicone. But hey, it’s vegan!

Fasting is supposed to help you get closer to God. If God lives inside my toilet, then it really did work. I watched Netflix from the comfort of my Kohler. Maybe that’s why it’s called Movie-prep solution. I personally viewed it as a problem.

The admissions nurse asked me if I had my affairs in order. I scanned the halls for an exit and said to my wife, “I’m here for a colonoscopy, right?”

I only met my current doctor once. He didn’t even attempt to court me. I am grateful for his smallish hands, but I did notice him roll up his sleeves before I fell victim to the narcotics. I assume they broke out the arm wrestlers once I was out.

I also worried about the discovery of the missing pack of Marlboros in a crush proof box that I keistered on my way to county jail in 1990 that never did turn up. I hope it has disintegrated by now.

On my way to la la land and my date with colonoscopy destiny, I asked what type of pain reliever was being administered, “Fentanyl,” he said. “It’s 100 times more powerful than Mor….”

“Zzzzzzz.”

Ater the procedure and my trip to la la land, primal post-op hiccups plagued me in the waiting room. This was my proclamation to the others awaiting their turn in the barrel, that, “yes, I have officially been tampered with.”

Yes, I have officially been tampered with.

I felt cheated though, because a host of strangers had been digging in my ass and I didn’t even know their names, nor did I get to have a smoke with them in the hospital bed after. Someone was thoughtful enough to leave a mint on my pillow.

Do I need to change my sexual orientation?

Even though it was a little like date rape, being drugged and abandoned, I felt oddly clean knowing they all wore protective gear and really did care about me as a person.

Nowadays everybody has an I-phone. I know there was a video made. I sure hope it doesn’t go viral, like the one titled Inside Ronald Reagan back in the ’80s.

I’ve been drug-free for more than two decades with the exception of two surgeries, one botched–both in prison. If I need a reminder that drugs are bad and judgment is impaired, I just look at the fact that I addressed my wife as “hey, buddy” today. Listen up! Married men, DON’T DO THAT. Friends don’t let friends call wives, “hey, Buddy.”

I know that when the hospital statement reaches the insurance company, they too will get in line to fuck me.

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