Before I could go to the doctor, I needed to cleanse my colon-twice. I bought the twin pack of enemas: one two hours before the appointment, one the hour before. Already the idea of having a doctor's finger and other assorted instruments in my anus wasn't prompting me to put my party hat on, but to insert things myself seemed a little farfetched.
Oh Crap.
I complied with the doctor's orders, only to feel more bloated and gassy than previously. I guess my planning was off; this being my week of feminine bliss sort of complicates matters.
Arriving at the doctor's office with a open mind and a sweaty palm, I sat anxiously awaiting the verdict. 30 minutes later, I finally inquired as to why I was waiting so long. The illustrations on the enema box flash intimadatingly back into my mind. I scoff at them. I take a deep breath, my name is called, it's time. The good doctor lubes up all the required tools and takes jab at my rectum, who has already risen the white flag after enemafest '06. She explained to me that everything had healed on it's own, but to make sure, she inserts a hose light tube that blows air; which incited farty-noises. I partook in some chuckles but smothered them with faux coughs, because I am totally mature.
Finally, the poking and prodding stopped. I regained what was left of my dignity and rejoiced: for my rectum was cancer and polyp free, and Taco Bell owed me a couple of favors.
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