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The Goddess of battle, strife, and destruction explains it all for you


April 21, 2005


I woke up this morning with the right side of my face inflated cartoonishly and a taste in my mouth like a trailer park septic tank.


By 8 a.m., I was on my dentistís doorstep. He took a look at me, prescribed an antibiotic and arranged for me to see an endodontist later in the afternoon.


On my way across town for the appointment, I stopped off at the drugstore to get my prescription filled.


While I was waiting for my medication, a middle-aged man strode into the store and made a beeline for the pharmacist. ďWhere would I find a rectal syringe?Ē he asked with admirable sangfroid.


I valiantly resisted the urge to suggest some probable locations.


"Hmm," said the pharmacist. "A rectal syringe? Iím not sure we stock them." A shadow crossed her face as she contemplated the many disquieting uses to which this product could be put.


But really -- WTF is a rectal syringe??!! If anyone would know, I would -- Iím a bit of an expert on the subject.


Iím sure Iíve mentioned it before, but I have Crohnís Disease. Crohnís is an illness that usually affects the digestive system but it can manifest anywhere in the body. In my case, 80% of the small bowel is diseased along with 30% of my large bowel.


And you don't get to keep your dignity.


With Crohnís, I don't get to wilt languidly and show the world how nobly I bear the burden of my cruel affliction. I don't get the neat consumptive fragility, the illness induced pale and translucent skin or an aspect of stoic suffering. There'll be no elegant swoons or delicate coughing into lace handkerchiefs for me.


Nope - instead, I get to crap myself demented 50 times a day. Just try putting a romantic spin on THAT.


Sound nasty? Wait till you hear about the treatment.


Letís put it this way: I would personally award the Nobel Prize for medicine to the person who invents Velcro for the abdomen - but until that happy day, thereís only one way in and it ainít pretty.


In the years since my diagnosis, I have had all manner of alarming objects thrust up my back passage - colonoscopes, cameras, enemas, assorted surgical devices and the greased, gloved fingers of a multitude of complete strangers.


What are they looking for? What?? Spelunkers? Somebody's watch? The lost city of Atlantis?? What??!!


If I could levy a toll for each time I was instructed to bring my knees up to my chest, turn onto my side and face the wall, Iíd have been a billionaire before I turned 18.


Given the sheer volume and variety of the devices that have been shoved up my ass over the years, youíd think Iíd remember a rectal syringe.. (Believe me, these instruments are unusually memorable.)


But I digress.


Eventually the pharmacist conceded defeat.


"Iím sorry - we donít have any."


"OK, thanks for checking," he mumbled. He took one last hopeful look in the laxative aisle, shook his head sadly and went about his business with the dejected air of a man whose anus was doomed to remain undrained for at least one more day.


In due course, I concluded my own business and walked to the subway, pondering the nature of the deviant practices such an instrument would likely facilitate.


On the bright side, brooding over a rectal syringe distracted me from the fact that the endodontist was torturing me with the enormous and sinister contraption he had just inserted in my mouth.


Since my mind was already in the gutter, I couldnít help but notice that his conversation sounded like a porn script. Even the most generous eavesdropper would concede that his remarks were capable of more than one interpretation.


"OK," he said. "Open wide for me. As wide as you can - good. Is this comfortable? I know itís big but if it hurts, tell me and Iíll stop."


"Mmmph..." was all I could manage by way of reply.


"Youíre going to feel some pressure but Iíll try to be gentle, OK? Wider now please. Good - open your mouth - yes, exactly like that. It wonít be long now - give me a minute or two - Iím nearly done... " he lied.


After what felt like hours later (but was only about 5 minutes), he took a last look at his handiwork. As he put his instruments away, he turned to me.


"See, that wasnít so bad. You were great. Would you like something to rinse your mouth out? I know the first time is always traumatic -- next time itíll be easier but this is a good start. Iím satisfied."


I rolled out of the chair and grabbed my stuff.


Then I gave him $385.


I felt so dirty.


Till next time,




Copyright© the Morrigan & Heartless Bitches International ( 2004
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