Getting To The Bottom Of Things
Every so often people ask me if it’s true – all the stuff I write about, about my amazing ability to be in the wrong place at the wrong time – or just to be doing the wrong thing.
My answer is always the same: come and live with me. See for yourself. Although you might end up regretting it…
Case in point. I decided to get the wife to film me, sneakily, as I went to get my colonic irrigation. Why? Well, why not? I knew the people there would refuse to let me if I asked, so I went ahead and did it anyway.
And suffice to say, it wasn’t pretty.
But that’s not the strange part.
What’s stranger than a grown man being filmed whilst enduring a rectal invasion paid for by his sister?
Well, it started like any other day. We stopped at the pharmacy to pick up our malaria pills, and there happened to be a special promotion on a product that seemed disturbingly appropriate:
No, I don’t know what it does either. But I can guess where it goes.
So, on to the Perth Colon Wellness Centre, where I planned on having gallons of water pumping into my areshole. Just for, you know, shits and giggles…
So the lady behind the desk was very nice. She got me to fill out all the paperwork, and sign a disclaimer informing me that “I am responsible for the insertion of my own rectal tube”.
I was quite relived about that.
Then I was shown into the room with a big plastic bed, designed to keep you in a position most familiar to women who have given birth. I was shown the pumping apparatus. It was all very scientific.
Then I was given a lollypop stick full of anal lube, and left alone to apply it.
Awkward – especially with the wife not only watching, but actually filming the process (discreetly, of course) – but I managed, and hopped up onto the machine.
Then I very gently, very, very gingerly – pushed the probe into my bottom.
Apparently I made some odd faces during the process… but luckily I’ve decided to spare you all from the sight of such things. You lucky, lucky people!
Anyway, the nice lady wandered back into the room and turned on the water. At this point was braced for anything from a tickle to agonizing pain – but felt nothing. Nothing. I told the lady – so she twisted the valve a little further.
And was rewarded with a face full of bum-water!
“Ugh!” she moaned, recoiling from the spray.
“Is that… supposed to happen?” I asked.
“Ugh! No!” she said, wiping her face on her sleeve. “It must be… broken!”
And it was.
“I didn’t do anything, I promise!”
“No, it’s okay. The lady before you has MS. I think she might have kicked it.”
She put her hands between my legs, and fiddled with my nozzle.
“Yes, your nozzle is broken, I’m afraid.”
I guess there could have been worse news. “Oh. So is it fixable?” I tried to keep the hope out of my voice. Couldn’t have her think I was actually terrified of having this done.
“I think we can fix it,” she said. “Hang on. I’ll just get Gerry.”
She nipped back to the front desk, and suddenly there were two of them, stood “oohing” and “ahhing”, as I lay there, legs akimbo, arse in the air.
“Have you had a look at it?” Gerry asked – presumably referring to the broken nozzle, rather than my exposed undercarriage.
“Oh yes,” came the reply – and then both of them had their hands down there, tugging back and forth on something, up to their elbows in the trough between my knees.
At least ‘Gerry’ was another lady. I half expected some paunchy, bearded maintenance bloke in steel toe-cap boots to come and have a rummage beneath my towel.
“We’ll just get you to hop off,” said Gerry. “We’ll leave you in privacy, of course…”
And the two women disappeared, allowing me the small mercy of de-impaling myself with only my wife watching. I can’t decide who had the more disgusted look on their face – her, or me.
We retired to a small adjoining lounge to wait, while the two women re-emerged armed with a variety of adjustable spanners and wrenches.
“Do you need a hand there?” I offered.
“Well, yes, actually…”
And so it came to pass that I spent the better part of an hour on my back underneath the shit-sucking machine, attacking the underside with a pair of spanners.
Poor Roo ended up there too – just as the staff had given up, and were on the phone to Jim the repair man – the faulty nozzle gave, and came out of the machine. I screwed a new one into place, and hey, presto! Fixed.
I was rather proud of myself, in a smug, masculine kind of way.
Until the ladies reminded me that now I could get back onto the thing.
And they left me another lolly-stick of lube…
Thankfully, the rest of the procedure went as planned.
Apart from the bit where, just as I was thinking ‘Thank the Goddess, it’s nearly done-“ – they returned to demonstrate their gratitude for my patience and assistance – by giving me an extra-long session.
Oh MAN, was my colon cleansed by the time that was done!
And for those brave (but foolhardy) few who have ventured thus far throughout my narrative – as kind of a reward/punishment…
Well, you’ve got to be curious, right?
I know I was.
So here it is – the (carefully edited) footage.
Having what little remains of my dignity well and truly stripped away.
So to speak.
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