There are several utterances that a man does not want to hear. “It’s not you, it’s me” is a main one. And “I thought you paid the car insurance” is right up there at the top. But the words that sends terror through a man’s whole being come right after he hears the snap of latex gloves. “Bend over the table!”
Some call it a physical examination. I call it physical torture. During the last time I endured this ritual, after the doctor removed his finger, hand and arm, I thanked him for clearing out my throat. “Have you ever had a colonoscopy?” he asked.
“Is that the round bread like thing served with cream cheese?” I asked.
“No,” he replied, “it’s when we check on the condition of your colon.”
“I thought you just checked on everything in the upper half of my body,” I politely responded.
“It’s time you had one,” he said.
“It’s time I had a Mercedes-Benz but that’s not going to happen either,” was my reply.
“I’ll have my office schedule an appointment and give you a call as to when you can pick up your prep kit,” he said on his way out the exam room.
“Prep kit? What prep kit?” The doctor was gone but I was soon to find out about the prep kit.
I received a call from his office letting me know I could pick up the prep kit on Tuesday and that the colonoscopy was scheduled for Thursday.
I stopped by the doctor’s office Tuesday and the receptionist handed me a gallon jug with some powder inside. “What’s this,” I asked.
“It’s Golytely,” she replied. “Your instructions are simple. Mix a gallon of water with the powder and, beginning around six o’clock Wednesday evening, drink an eight ounce glass of the mixture every ten minutes until you consume the entire gallon.”
“You’re kidding, right?” I asked.
“I never kid about Golytely,” she replied. “Go forth and drink. Do not venture more than ten feet from a bathroom. Be at the clinic at 7:30 a.m. Thursday for your procedure.”
Now it’s Wednesday afternoon and I’m looking at this gallon jug of powder mix thinking that, as a kid, I never drank over one glass of Kool-Aid at a time and they really want me to drink a gallon of this powder in 80 minutes.
Imagination is the mother of invention. My imagination tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Cut the water, man. Mix the powder with beer. It’ll taste a lot better and you can clean out everything.”
As twilight fell, I mixed the powder in the gallon jug with beer and shook the jug to mix the ingredients. Big mistake. Beer foam blew the lid off the jug and washed down the kitchen floor.
How do I correct this error in judgment? Wait, I have some laxatives so I’ll take some and finish off the beer powder.
Several glasses of beer powder and a couple of trips to the bathroom, I realize adding more beer to the jug would probably help. I’m out of beer but a quick trip to the convenience store would solve that problem.
I back my car out of the driveway and head for the store forgetting the main instruction I was given. “Do not venture more than ten feet from a bathroom!” Seven o’clock Thursday morning I call the clinic. “I can’t make the procedure this morning,” I said.
“Why,” asked the nurse.
“Because the detailer said it would take about two days to clean my car. I’ve got a terrible hangover and I’m living in my bathroom.”
“But you really need the colonoscopy,” says the nurse.
“Yea,” I reply. “And I really need that Mercedes-Benz but that’s not going to happen either.”