Poop

Anyone who has raised a boy knows that this is what we are about. This and penises. Our humor, our symbolism (practically 2/3 of Freud), and our points of view revolve around scatology.

In the beginning we struggle for mastery over our poop, or over others' dominion over it. As we get older, and hair falls from the popular places, only to colonize in far less popular places, our thoughts return again to the lowly sphincter, center of our Universe. Nothing like a good poop. Shouldn't have have that second helping of meringue pie at Bishop's.

Small wonder that colonoscopy becomes our rite of passage. It's a simple procedure and relatively noninvasive, medically speaking and a very good idea to do. If I've got polyps, I certainly want them removed before they consider morphing. My rational mind is settled.

Unfortunately, there's the rest of me, which occupies what Monty Python called "the Pied Piper of my attention squad." This has been, thus far, a messy business. I certainly hope my insides are clean enough because I'd be pretty annoyed if I had to "do over." Then there's the little matter of having my channel inspected: yikes. Dr. Qiao is going to snake a cable up there and see what he can see. Thank God he is administering the good medication, the stuff that helps you forget indignity. (I only hope I don't blather on. What do you suppose the chance of that is!) My women friends will have long since gone off on tangents about cold speculums (speculae), mammograms and childbirth, shaming me into perspective, and missing the point.

As insignificant as my loss of dignity may be, as minor as the inconvenience is to my marginally violated sphincter, the fact remains that I am a man. Even now the good doctor is readying the anal probe. Forgive my lack of personal perspective.

Happy travels, Dr. Qiao.