From: Michael Booye (may he terrorize idiots in the afterlife)
(Date: Sun, 07 Jan 1996)
Day 1. Birth of a Nation
My day began much as any other, with a quart of coffee and the newest download of a.t. After finishing both, I sat upon the gleaming white throne, eager to start my daily caffeine-enhanced power dump. While perusing my new copy of the Re/Search Guide to Bodily Fluids, I noted that there seemed to be somewhat of a logjam impeding the progress of my usual peristalsis, so I applied some extra encouragement. I was relieved when this resulted in dislodging the obstruction. I noted with satisfaction that I had expelled a somewhat larger than normal grogan, one that entered the water with a gratifying splash. Its brethren filed out in summary fashion. While I waited for any malingerers to appear, a dull, throbbing pain replaced the familiar sensation of my puckered starfish contracting to its normal virginal state. It was a pain I had come to recognize, one portending many hours of ablution rituals and application of various unguents, salves and artifacts.
I gingerly cleaned my aching asshole with simultaneous dread and anticipation. I discovered that I'd produced a turgid, gumball-sized (1 cm, for you Eurotrash) external hemorrhoid. The usually delightfully soft asswipe felt like sandpaper as I drew it across the newest addition to my anatomy. This was the most profound manifestation yet, and I gently blotted my excreta from its smooth, spherical surface with my always-handy baby wipes.
All of this attention caused my new-found friend to awake from its slumber, and it screamed at me in a high, plaintive wail of pain. I set the shower on hot 'n' steamy, and proceeded to further assess the damage. As I had no mirror at hand, manual exploration would have to suffice.
The water cascaded down my back and funneled across my tortured anus, affording a small degree of relief. As I felt a small release of the tension in my battered ringpiece, I decided to resume my usual depuration. Cautiously, I inserted a well-soaped finger into my disfigured orifice, no mean feat as it had clamped tightly shut in response to this recent insult. Nevertheless, patience rewarded me with the opportunity to further catalog the damage. I discovered that no internal protrusions had manifested to sing two-part harmony with their more exposed cousin. With a quick rotation of my index finger, I dislodged any bits-o'-feces lurking in the folds of my grommet.
A quick inventory of my ass kit revealed that supplies were down to critical levels: only a few suppositories and one travel pack of Tucks remained. Whoops. Looks like the little yellow bullet, then.
Assuming the position (one foot on the sink, the other on the floor), I quickly unwrapped the cocoa butter payload and shoved it home. It felt like a life-sized John Holmes replica covered with pumice as I slowly pushed it past my agonized flesh. The blunt end mushroomed from the heat and pressure of my fingertip, and I wondered if I would get the damned thing in before it melted into a glob of goo. An involuntary moan escaped my lips as I gave it a final push and my fingernail gouged my sensitive appendage. Yee-ow! Now the instrument of pain and deliverance was lodged midway through the passage. A firm clench forced it fully in.
I broke open my last packet of Tucks, applying them ever-so-gently to my roaring flue to remove any residue of the intruder and perhaps grant a small respite. Hah. Wave after wave of pain issued from my abused sphincter. I dressed in a careful manner, and drove to the local Wal-Mart.
Every bump and pothole multiplied my agony, and by the time I parked the car, I was viewing the world through a transparent red haze of rage and despair. I limped through the doors, and proceeded to search out the remedies that had served me so well in the past. I couldn't find the asshole section, and was surrounded by a bewildering array of brightly-colored packages offering salvation from every malady known to man, except, of course, those palliatives that I so desperately sought.
Ah-ha! I found the condom display, and next to it, the laxatives. (I still admire the clever perversity of those corporate types that organize product deployment by the orifice the product is intended for...) I was hot on the trail of my quarry, and rounding the corner, I found the object of my desire. Deliverance was at my fingertips.
I selected the economy size jar of Tucks, and briefly debated the merits of suppositories versus ointments. I postponed the decision, and gathered up both varieties.
The checkout clerk smirked at me after examining my selections. I snarled at him, and he quickly realized that he was dealing with He Who Should Not Be Antagonized, Lest One's Head Be Separated From One's Corpus. (Amazing thing, this non-verbal communication.) He resumed the role of insignificant toady, and I left with my purchases.
Returning to my room, I opened the Preparation H box, and attached the "comfortable" applicator tip to the tube of ointment. It gleamed dully in the florescent bathroom
light. I gently squeezed the tube, and a thread of gel slowly extruded from each perforation of the tip. I coated the tip with ointment, preparing it for the trip through the Tunnel of Pain.
Again, I assumed the position. As I stuffed the "comfortable" tip in my throbbing bung, I was struck by the "comfortable" tip's similarity to a slim cylindrical cheese grater. When the business end had been deployed to its maximum depth, I squeezed the tube, applying what seemed to be a fair amount of ointment. I removed the tube and inspected it for the presence of any residual feces. None was revealed by my cursory inspection.
I ripped open the Tucks box and applied a goodly bunch to my distended flesh. Ahhh...a bit of relief from the cool, soothing pads.
On days like this, I can't help feeling like the entire universe revolves around my asshole.
----
Michael Booye | "Facts are stubborn things." | (c)1995
Shaman, visionary, | -T. Smollett | All rights
ethicist, Jeffersonian, | "Beware the military- | reserved.
rationalist, pamphleteer, | industrial complex." |
armchair sociologist. | -Dwight D. Eisenhower |
Editor's note: Michael passed a way a few years ago. He was an acquaintance of mine, and he is missed.
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