I decided to take a much-needed vacation from a former (writing) stomping ground, and to my surprise, my absence did not go unnoticed. When I got back I had e-mails, notes in the Newsroom, and offline chat messages asking where I had been. Many theories were tossed around. Had I finally been institutionalized? Did I run off with the men of Thunder Down Under? Had I suffered a major brain freeze from a Slurpee-gone-wrong? Another writer threw out the possibility that a poo expert on the site, Shannon Law, had kidnapped me, and performed massive amounts of crap extraction on my colon.
Luckily, I was safe from harm, but an idea was sparked. Not having any shame, or ladylike tendencies for that matter, I resolved to leave my fecal matter in the hands of a perfect stranger. I began to research the process of Colon Hydrotherapy, its benefits, and reputable places where it could be performed. I decided on a place near my work, and made an appointment with a woman named Irina for the next week.
I tossed and turned at night over the next few days. Visions of Sugar Turds danced in my head. I could not believe I was willing to part with something that was such a fundamental part of me. I began to wonder who this woman was, and why I was going to allow this professional stool stealer to take what was rightfully mine away from me. I blamed her flashy website, something that had gotten me in to trouble many times before. This is exactly how I became a lifelong member of the Shannon Doherty fan club.
The morning of the appointment I was a nervous wreck. I could hear faint cries coming from my colon, begging me to reconsider my hasty decision. I drank away my sorrows at the local Starbucks, and decided to be strong. I had made my decision, and I did not care what my poop thought about it!
I showed up on time, but nobody was there. I knocked, peeked through the window in a way that even the best stalker would be proud of, called out to them through the mail slot, and then sat down on the doorstep to wait it out. Just as I got up to leave, my hydrotherapist and her husband came tearing in to the parking lot. I could only hope that she would not be speeding in to my rectum the way she did that spot.
Once inside, I actually relaxed a bit. Irina, the person who would be riding on my hershey highway, was actually very warm and inviting. Her husband, who moonlighted as their business manager, had me sit down and fill out an extensive health questionaire. He said that he could tell I was nervous, but had nothing to worry about. This was pretty easy coming from a guy who was not about to have his sphincter rocked like a hurricane.
Irina took me in to the back room and began to explain the process. She talked about the equipment, what the hydroptherapy entailed, and gave me my gown. She said that I just needed to get naked from the waist down, and then lay down on the bed. I did as instructed, and waited for her to come back to the room. Once she was back, she handed me a package of tubing.
“Do you know where your anus is?”
Now, this is normally something I would expect to be asked on a third or fourth date, and not by someone whose only knowledge of me is whether or not High Blood Pressure runs in my family. I had not taken anatomy in years, but I was confident I remembered where my shart-chute was. I told her yes, and took the package from her.
“Good, because you are going to be inserting this yourself.”
What? This was something I had not expected. Not only am I paying this woman to violate me, but I have to do all of the grunt work too? No, no, no. This was not working for me. She must have seen the look on my face because she assured me they do this for each patient’s comfort.
She then handed what I can only describe as a duckbill with lube generously spread all over it. I turned on my left side, and pulled the gown away from me which exposed my butt to her.
“What? No. I don’t need to see your tush.”
A colon hydrotherapist who did not want to see a rear end? This was like finding a prosecutor who did not want to find the murder weapon. Un-freakin-believable. I had just exposed myself to someone, and I did not even have to!
Once I was over my embarrassment, I was able find the spot where we were going to be burying this treasure. I inserted it rather easily, and she assisted me in attaching the tubing to the piece I was holding.
She patted me on the shoulder, “You have a very relaxed anus. Good girl!”
Of all the compliments I have ever received in my life, this had to be the strangest. This trumped the time that someone told me that my large head actually looked good on me because of my masculine features. I think he was just jealous because I could grow mutton chops faster than he could.
She then had me lay on my back so we could get maximum extractage. She looked down at the tube, and asked me to look at little silver specks that were collecting on the inside of it.
“Do you know what this is dear?”
I figured I was just clean as a whistle, and that in her 28 years of doing this, she had never seen someone like me. I had defied the odds, and had a colon you could eat off of!
“Those are your farts! You are full of them, isn’t that amazing!?”
I do not know about any of you, but this is not what I would consider amazing. David Beckham showing up on my doorstep naked is amazing. Winning the lottery is amazing. Being full of so much gas you could power a Prius is not in that same category.
“Uh, that’s a bad thing, right? I mean, am I so abnormally so full of farts that I might be able to step in to a basket and become a human Hot Air Balloon one day?”
She side-stepped my question, and immediately began to tell me how the majority of people are chock full of these silent-but-deadlies, and that we do not even realize it. She said she needed to remove them so that she did not push them in any further once she began the hydrotherapy. I was thankful for that because I did not want to be belching farts all day long. I barely like the way burps taste when I have eaten garlic.
Once the toot-tastic process was over, she turned the water on. There was so much pressure in my abdomenI was sure I was about to birth something, and it was not a baby.
“Your anus is tense. Why do you tense up your anus?”
“Unless you’re a fan of Dutch Ovens, I suggest you let me keep squeezing this bad boy.”
“No, relax. Please relax the anus.”
I must stop here and say that the way she said anus was hilarious. She had an accent, so it came out like ay-noose.
I finally did as instructed, and relaxed the ay-noose. She told me she was very proud of me for being so brave. I cannot save someone from a burning building, or climb up and get a cat out of a tree, but I can relax my butthole like no other! I am the original American hero.
“You are very full of poo. This is exciting! Most people are very full of poo. It is like sausage in casing; stuffed in there. I promise to coax your poo out of you.”
Coax my poo out of there? I am the boss of my fluffy floaties! If I want them out of there, I will get them out of there. Why should I have to reason with them?
She then hooked up a bucket of yellow liquid to the tube and let it flow through. I asked her what it was, and she said it was a blend of Chamomile and Peppermint tea. I checked both of those teas off of the mental list of things I will ever drink again in my lifetime.
You know how peppermint tastes in your mouth? Now imagine that going up in to your rectum. It felt like someone was shooting a Mentos commercial in my colon. I would gladly take hemorrhoids on my butt over Altoids.
“I don’t mean to sound like a whiner, but that peppermint is a little too cool on my butt.”
“Oh yes, it is very cool. Very refreshing. Doesn’t your anus feel refreshed?”
“I don’t know. Hey anus, do you feel relaxed and refreshed? Don’t let me stress you out, please.”
She laughed at that even though I was only half-joking. I wanted this to stop immediately. I wanted her to stop saying the word “anus” over and over. I hated El G more at this moment than you can imagine.
Once the Icy Hot had completely drained from the bucket, she told me we were almost done. I was relieved because I had to go to the bathroom really badly. She told me that there would be some pressure on my bladder, but that was an understatement.
She wrapped up the cord and told me to go to the bathroom. I bargained for a Niagra Falls-like reaction from the front door, but what I had not counted on was the same reaction from the back door.
I sat there gripping that toilet for dear life. I still believe that my fingerprints are indented on that toilet seat somewhere. I started to panic because I had to go back to work afterwards, and I was sure that I now needed to clear my schedule to clear my bowels. Then I heard a knock at the door.
“Jenny? You sound great in there. Keep it up!”
This woman was listening to my heiney hurl. My life has reached some fairly low points, but being encouraged for something like this had to be the lowest. After everything I had endured up until that point, I am not sure how I had any kind of shame left. She had seen my butt, complimented me on my stress-free glory hole, and shown me my own farts. This was just the icing on the proverbial cake.
After the session wrapped up, she gave me a huge hug, and told me I was one of the most cooperative people she had ever worked with. Again, I was not sure if this was a compliment, but I was willing to take it. I thanked her and went on my merry little way, vowing to never step foot in to that office ever again.
Something strange happened that night. I had so much more energy than I normally do after a long day of work, and I slept like a baby. I woke up the next morning, and felt alert and truly alive. I was not starving through the duration of the day per the usual. I was actually seeing the fruits of my anal labor! The forecast had now become fartless with a strong possibility of another colon hydrotherapy session.
All in all, I am happy that I did this. Aside from the fact that it is a hilarious story to tell, it had actually done what it was supposed to do. The benefits of this procedure seem to be endless, and as I said before, I was already reaping them after one session. Rest assured that my jam-packed poop and I will once again be visiting Irina, everyone’s favorite turd burglar.
This piece originally published on Sips of Jen and Tonic
About the Author: Jen and Tonic
Jen and Tonic was classically trained in the art of guzzling a beer in less than fifteen seconds. She is single-handedly responsible for creating the David Hasselhoff empire, and destroying Dustin Diamond’s career.
On the weekend she enjoys wearing pants with elastic in the waist, arm wrestling small children, and skinny dipping in her neighbors’ bathtubs when they’re not home. She has struggled for years with being overly badass, and scientists are currently studying her in an effort to figure out how one person can be so awesome. br> View My Profile