Please, darling, help me...I got hemmorhoids!

From Virtuanna:

28 Oct 1995

The fun part of living with a hopeless alcoholic is the part where you are remembering the tasteless stuff...later... much later...when you are well out of the scene.

My ex-, Keith, the hapless subject of several of my posts, was, and still is, a chronic alcoholic. He suffered from a number of little maladies common to those with this addiction; one of which was a rampant case of dangling 'rhoids. Exacerbated by days of meals consisting of little more than Budweiser (when his beer budget would allow it)coffee, and death dogs >from 7-11(a noxious pseudofood, for those not living in countries infested by them), his alimentary canal qualified as a toxic waste source. The corrosive slurry that exploded out of his backside with enough force to backsplash onto the seat packed enough deadly fragrance to cause the bathroom wallpaper to peel. He would inspect his anal extrusions carefully, and dutifully report anything noteworthy, not that I felt like being the Keeper of the GroganLog.

I think it all began in his younger days of homosexual experimentation, and the old drawpouch just never got a chance to normalize...

One day I heard a rather piteous noise from the bathroom, and still possessing approximately a pint-and-a-half of compassion left for him at the time, asked him what the nature of his trouble might be. His 'rhoids had decided to check out the view from the outside in, and was causing him no "end" of pain.

They were protruding about an inch-and-a-half (that's too many centimetres to even want to think about, for our foreign friends!) from his asshole. What the fuck did he want *me* to do about it? I asked him. Whatever needed to be done, he told me. Carte Blanc with his Happy Brown Spot...opportunity has arisen, my evil and vengeful side chortled.

OK, I told him, this is going to hurt you a whole lot more than it's going to hurt me. Go in the bedroom, strip, and bend over on the bed on all fours, and wait while I get what I need.

I heard a self-pitying whimper or two from the bedroom while I assembled the tools of torture. I got a long, two-tined kitchen fork, like you use to turn over roasts and large chunks of meat, a bottle of olive oil, rather wicked-looking mechanical corkscrew, and a large wire bottlebrush.

He looked mournfully but resignedly at me as I entered the bedroom, weapons in hand. Actually I hadn't planned to use them on him, I was just enjoying *scaring* him. I thought when he saw the rather unorthodox treatment he was going to get, he'd object. No. He just said, do what you have to do, and buried his face in the pillow, rump skyward. I was taken aback, because really I was just bluffing. Faced with the nasty task at hand, I figure here was the chance to inflict on him what he deserved. I spread his buttcheeks, dumped the oil down his crack, and then I saw them. I almost ralphed at the sight of purple, bloody, tubes hanging out of a less than well-wiped hiney-hole. Apparently wiping was at a minimum during the pile problem. He just wanted them poked back up into his ass, or, as a last resort, removed. By me.

I couldn't very well back down now, with him in such a plight, so I plunged on. I gently pushed the engorged piles back towards the general direction of where his sphincter was supposed to be, with the two-pronged fork. This was too much, even for me. So I gave him the corkscrew, and asked him to turn the handle to fully retract the mechanism, to be twisted corkscrew style up his ass. The sight of the implement up close changed his mind about wanting me to play proctologist with him, much to my relief.

The next day, I looked in the phone book for a butt doctor for him, and just to wring one more bit of retribution out of it, I made sure to make the appointment with the most foreign sounding, barely English-speaking, proctologist I could find...

Virtuanna ;)