Bluddeanous: The aftermath

As I have mentioned before, there are some stories that I should learn to keep private. Especially since there are individuals out there who know the real identity of Deuces Wild. Would Clark Kent parade around in nut-hugging red speedos over blue tights if people knew he was superman? Probably not. So it is with great hesitation that I share this next story. But as they say in show business, the deuce must go on.

After being diagnosed with hemorrhoids, the doctor wanted to make sure I didn't get an infection. It makes sense, the last thing I would want is green puss excreting from an infected inner anus. If I were my own doctor, I would have recommended that I take antibiotics.

Instead, I was required to take the equivalent of anal neosporin. Probably the grossest prescription known to man: the anal suppository. These bullet shaped hole pluggers needed to be rinsed to moisten the exterior. Then all 2 or 3 inches of it needed to be inserted into my rectum. This was certainly far from enjoyable in its own right. But the results were almost as bad.

The first result of being rammed in the anus was that my fingers would smell like the nastiest place on earth (the Deuces Wild's deucer). Given the raw stench that comes out of my ass, there is no reason to put things at the source. The second result was even worse. As the days would go on, the warmth of my lower intestines would melt the suppositories into a creamy goo. The creamy goo would turn into a creamy brownish white substance that would leak into my underwear. And as being such a deucer, you may have guessed that I tend to expel some noxious gasses more often than most individuals. What you can also probably deduce, farts with a melted gooey suppository are a bad combination. The more explosive the roars from below, the greater the fall out damage was. Each blast required the awkward duckwalk as the goo crawled its way around my lower region in an uncomfortable manner. On lucky days during the suppository times, my boxers would have a gentle creamy stain, creating mild discomfort before they were thankfully removed. On the worst of days, they would be a warzone with caustic debris spattered all over them. Of course there were a few casualties of boxers that needed to be discarded and pants that needed to be triple cleaned before being used again. But while the dirty river of poo-infused, melted neosporin-like cream found its way to deep corners of my skin, there was no green infected puss.

So while I stood humiliated yet again, I at least lived to crap another day. Many days in fact. And with the conclusion of the Bluddeanous Period, it would be several more years into the deuce era before I realized that my bomb-dropping habits were far from normal.

Stay tuned..