I SHIT YOU NOT!

The subject of today's discussion, dear, gentle reader, is Colonic Irrigation. I.Shit.You.Not...

Something John Cleese above looks like he could benefit from right about now.

In a very ill-advised slip of the tongue, I may have mentioned to someone that I was at somewhat of a loss as to probable content for today's blog. And since I tend to rehash the same old rubbish about being tired and emulating Martha Stewart every time I've experienced a less than exciting day, they thought it was a splendid idea to suggest a more specific title.

I give you 'Colonic Irrigation'. Not the Hollywood version where there are a small group of town's folk gathered with placards demanding "We wanna know - where does the shit go", but real, honest to goodness, down-n-dirty, investigative journalism, the type you'd associate with Noeleen from 3Talk, or Debra "Drukka" Putty.

I knew someone who had to go for a colonoscopy, a rather invasive procedure, I think you will agree. I believe an enema is part and parcel of the whole wonderful experience. Have you ever stopped to think about it though? It's essentially a jet of liquid fulfilling the old Afrikaans idiom "Spuit, spuit, my storie is uit" to the letter. [Ok, I may have used some artistic licence there.]

Now the only reason I no longer drink and drive is that I fear above all else the Polsmoor Polka, the dance of death, the certain long and painful termination of my life at the hands of a gang of sex-starved tik addicts of the Ag En Twintig variety. It's fair to assume that this will be my fate the next time I open with the line "Gnnnnffffmmmghghgggg er hallo orifice, haaarsit mah poents! Wharezah fuggin loudhailer - orrin you suppowz to he one fora fingy..."

I'm already on strike six million...

It is the invasion of my sensitive derriere that "scares the shit outta me", if you will...

Anyway, as with any activity or situation in life, one is compelled to look at it from different angles in order to get a comprehensive picture. See where I'm going with this? Consider the medical practitioner in charge of administering this kak gedagte. Talk about permanently second guessing your life choices. And thanking the inventor of protective clothing. Imagine being the vet that "lost" his thermometer in the backside of the grumpy, gastric cow...

As with all things, like certain delicacies around the globe and how you may find it gross, there are 2 sides to every story. When we were young and forced to go to SOS camp, we stood in cow plop on a cold winter morning... barefoot, exhorted by some daft bat called Zebra or Tortoise to squish it deep between our toes and fully experience the wonderful warming sensation. Although this did not kill us, it carried with it a certain "gross that's yuk" factor and we haven't done so again, save for the random altercation with dogpooh every number of years. Dogpooh, unavoidable.

Now imagine the depraved individual that purposefully picks a vocation that involves cleaning out your lower intestine - and those of other people (imagine the staggering variety) - on a daily basis. "Hi I'm Doctor Kniediep Innikak and I'll be putting these gloves on now"...

"Hi I'm Doctor Ben Dover..."

When I go to the proctologist, he has to wear an arc-welding mask. Because the rumours are true. The sun, as opposed to all manner of filth inhabiting the rectal canals of everyone else, actually does shine out of my arse. I couldn't think of a better way to wrap up this utterly disgusting, Terence n Philip type post of the lamest drivel ever committed to ether.

It's actually a high level psychological experiment in the attraction behind toilet humour. If you've made it this far, thank you for participating. Your eagerness to read about faeces has done science a great service...

NGDG: "My first proposal for tonight's AGM will be the formation of a 24-hour complex militia who's seek-and-destroy objectives will be: tenants who play music lacking in guitar, and stray cats."

Spread The Love. Pass The Hose.