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..

Bluddeanous Period: the conclusion

To recap, the bluddeanous period of my life was a not-so-fresh moment. The discovery of red globs in my dump had put me on edge. The doctors put me on more edge when they made me scrape out dingleberries and poop smears to share with them and when a dirty old man put his finger up my butt. At this point, they decided to scare me with all the terrible things a little rectal bleeding could mean. Cancer, colon polyps, celiac disease, and a host of other things that inevitably lead to death or a lifetime of suffering. So then came the next step....The anal probe.

The anal probe is not a pleasant step in the Bluddeanous Period. It wasn't just the probing of my anus that concerned me, it was also what preceded the ass exploration. And all of this is conducted under a shroud of fear that this may be the last time I count on growing old and possibly accomplishing something great (like blogging about my deucing).

I was scheduled for a colonoscopy several weeks in advance. So I had plenty of time to fear the preparation for the probe, the probe itself, and the possible results of the probe. The rules for a colonoscopy are simple: Get everything out of the system because the doctor doesn't want to be navigating the brown river as he explores the inner intestines. Nor does the doctor want to be dumped on when the probe in-deuces the deuce.

To prepare for the colonoscopy I had to stop eating and limit myself to water only for some time before the big event. I remember 18 hours, but looking online I've seen doctors request a full day. I don't quite remember how long it was, but that was not the difficult part. There was one thing that I was allowed to have...actually one thing that I was required to have in the hours preceding the exploration of my anus. I had to take a very strong laxative. At first I felt a few rumbles. Then I had a very smooth and easy dump. It was almost like drunk people "breaking the seal" by urinating. Once I took this first crap, the floodgates were open. I was enjoying a nice episode of the Golden Girls at the time. Rose was in the process of saying something stupid when my stomach spoke to me forcefully. The gurgles begged me to escape this miserable show and head to the bathroom. Hell hath no fury like a second bowel movement after a pre-colonoscopy laxative. I felt like Harry in Dumb and Dumber. I wished I had a handle by the toilet to brace myself when chunky brown liquid explosively shot from colon. It was wet and it was sloppy. And it was seemingly never-ending. But it did end. And I got back to the tv just in time to see Blanche give me weird feelings as she was acting slutty before I had to return to the bathroom to expel some goo (brown goo, not white goo you perverts, Blanche isn't that sexy).

The night involved being within five feet of the bathroom, which unfortunately was inside the smell-zone radius. I felt urges to fart, but wisely headed to the toilet before attempting to release some gas. Eight out of ten fart urges would have stained my pants had I not taken the precaution. As the night wore on, the deuces evolved from chunky brown liquid, to smooth brown liquid, to yellow liquid with brown sea anemones swimming within, to yellow liquid, to light yellow liquid and finally to near clear liquid. By the end of it, my ass was wiped raw and my boxers needed to be thrown out.

After my colon had fully been cleansed, it was doctor time. The procedure was in the hospital and I had to put on the gown. I never understood why they have the back open for your butt to hang out. If it was reversed, the patient could at least hold the gown closed when the doctor wasn't examining unchartered crevices. Instead, people like me are left demeaned holding the butt of the garb together or exposing their rear end to all the nurses and hospital employees. We should really start a petition to get the gown gap reversed. But I digress.

The last thing I remember from the colonoscopy was being told that I would be awake during the procedure but wouldn't feel a thing or remember it. I was shown the screen would display my bowels to the seemingly full room of doctors, interns and others who wanted to see my anus. Since I thought I might die, I invited my parents. I don't remember if they were in the room when the gown was spread open to reveal my chocolate starfish, but I care not to ask. Some things are better not thought about. So with a room full of people, I was given drugs then the business.

The anal probe revealed that I simply had a case of hemmorhoids. A young recent college grad had the same anal disfunction as an old grandpa. But at least it wasn't anything serious. I thought I would get some preparation H and be on my way. Unfortunately, the doctor had a prescription that I wish I had enough drugs to forget the same way I forgot the anal probe. That my friends, is a story for another day.

Bluddeanous Period Part 4

To recap: After discovering a red bomb exploded in the toilet that changed my world forever like Hiroshima, I went to the doctor to get to the root of the problem. I was demeaned with the task of proving there was blood in stool, which resulted in an uncomfortable and unholy, well I guess quite hole-y, use of popsicle sticks. After storing poop smears in my apartment for several days, I finally collected enough brown stamps to turn them in to the doctor for my prize.

Lo and behold, they discovered that there was actually blood in stool. This came as a huge surprise after my dump looked like Stephen King's Carrie at the prom. And boy did they ever have a prize for me. They scheduled an appointment to meet with Dr. Steve. I just made up his name just now, but it seems fitting for the story. I don't remember the actual doctor's name, just the size of his thumb. My apologies for those of you who weren't interested in this kind of story. But sometimes the truth, and a doctor's appendages, hurt. And this is definitely one of those cases.

So I have an appointment with who we will call Dr. Steve. An old, pedophile looking doctor with thick dark-framed glasses. He wore the white doctor's coat of authority, but looked more like a senile Wal-Mart greeter. He had a grandpa-type uncertainty to his voice when he asked me to get changed into the gown. When he returned, he struggled to read the chart through his thick glasses. Then he told me to turn around and put my hand on the tables. I will never forget his request as he lubed up his gloves, "Please squeeze like you are having a bowel movement." Then with one fell swoop, his cold lubricated finger was in my asshole. It kind of scoped around in there. Then he said to himself, "nope." He fumbled through to place another finger in there. Not more fingers at the same time, I just think he felt like he wanted a different angle. I am convinced this one was his thumb, but I didn't have the courage to look. The last thing I wanted to do was make eye contact with a man who had his hand in butt.

He looked rather confused. I would make a joke that he looked pleased with the events as he smoked his cigarette, but that wouldn't make me look good either. Instead, he really just looked puzzled. He scribbled on the chart and said something like, "well, I didn't see anything." That could either have been because he looked half-blind, because his exploration wasn't exactly a visual inspection, or because there really isn't much to see in the naked anus with a naked eye.

As I was advanced to the next step, I learned that like the popsicle stick search for proof of blood, this anal violation was not necessary. Ideally I would have skipped to step four of this awful experience (not that step four gets any better). But instead, I had one more experience to go through before the Bluddeanous Period would be complete.

To be continued...

Bluddeanous Part 3

WARNING, this post is not intended for those who are easily queasy. In case you have not been following the details of the Deuce Era or its Bluddeanous Period, let me catch you up to speed. I had been having plenty of poop problems, but I hadn't realized there was something abnormally wrong with me until my bowels exploded to form a sea of red around the brown mound in the bowl. This warning sign was literally bright enough for me to take heed.

So I headed to the doctor. This was my first mistake. As I explained to the doctor the discovery of blood in the toilet, he became visibly worried. He did what no doctor should do. He would make concerned faces and interject with statements like "that's not good." He then became doctorly and explained the things that it could be. It could be colon cancer, colon polyps, a peptic ulcer, Crohn's disease or other serious issues. Of course he concluded by telling me that I shouldn't worry. Right. The first step was to make sure that I did in fact have blood in the stool. Apparently a bowl full of red isn't good enough. So I was put through the completely degrading, uncomfortable, and clearly unnecessary task of getting laboratory-certified proof that my rectum was bleeding. This was the first in a series of unnecessary and humiliating circumstances that a little blood in the anus caused.

I was sent to the lab where I was given further instructions. I was given a brown paper bag. No problem. I was given a piece of paper. Everything still seems okay. I was given several 6 inch popsicle sticks. A little weird. Then came the instructions. I needed to collect three samples....of my dump. Not cool, but it got worse. The samples couldn't be from the same dump. The samples couldn't be from the beginning of the dump or the end of the dump. I was to collect them with the popsicle sticks and smear them on the piece of paper. I was to write the date of specimen collection next to each smear. And I was to save the poop smeared paper until I had collected all three. Oh yeah, and I couldn't collect the sample after it had touched the bowl.

So here I am doing a circus act in the bathroom. My craps had to be lengthy enough to have something to catch between the first and last squirt. It had to be soft enough to leave a deposit on the popsicle stick. And I had to aim carefully to get it on the stick with no splashback or dispersion onto my hands or the toilet seat. So imagine, if you a will, a poor Deuces Wild who had already known there was blood in his stool, doing a squat above the toilet with sticks in hand, trying to administer the excrement at the appropriate time and stabbing at them like Ralph Macchio with chop sticks. The worst thing was that a few deuces failed to produce a consistency that could be grabbed with the popsicle sticks in mid air. With two down and a paper smeared with brown, smelly crud, the third catch proved elusive. I broke down and had to violate one of the doctor's orders. I was either going to get a sample from the bowl or it was not going to be a specimen from the middle of one of my sessions. Having a roommate at the time, I didn't want to get a weird diagnosis by scraping the tainted dung. So I went for the remnants. I failed to catch a hearty deuce in midair. In haste, I did what no man should have to do. Before I wiped with toilet paper, I used the end of the popsicle stick to extract some "hanging chads" surrounding my anus. Triumphantly, I smeared them on the paper, wrote down the date and brought my work back to the lab. Now it was time to wait for them to tell me what I already knew.

One would think that this would be the lowest of the low. The darkest depths of despair that could ever be reached in a Bluddeanous Period. But no. It got worse. Not much worse. That wouldn't be possible. But worse it got indeed.

To be continued.....

Bluddeanous Part 2

It has been several days now that I have left you in suspense about the Bluddeanous Period. It doesn't take a Shakespeare expert to figure out what the deuce problem may have been, and it doesn't take a degree in Deuceology to know that the punishment didn't fit the crime. I was a younger lad than I am today. It was several years into the Deuce Era, but I had yet to identify these times as such. Every once and a while, for the sake of a story, I have to reveal facts about me and my life that aren't exactly cool. There are certain nuggets of truth about me that are best kept private, but that must be shared for the sake of knowledge, understanding, and a good story. So, I now reveal a peculiar habit that I had at the time.

I consider myself a curious fellow. Someone who can't leave well enough alone unless I have all the facts of a situation. Well, this curiosity made it such that I couldn't drop a deuce without knowing the full effects of my actions. This led me to do what I believe many men would do. After a deuce, I look to the bowel to see what I have accomplished. This is perhaps the most normal part of what I am about to tell you. I will also sometimes peak down to see my progress. Again, this is a bit more on the normal side. What I am convinced is not normal, but what led me toward the Bluddeanous Period, is a little habit known as the wipe watch. If you have a gag reflex, skip down to the next paragraph. When wiping the remnants of a deuce from the depths of my buttocks, curiosity would compel me to examine what lie below on the toilet paper. Rather than depositing it immediately to its proper home, I would take a look to see what kind of art I had made. While brown is the most common, I've had my Picasso moments in a blue period as well as green (after drinking Kool-Aid), yellow, and combinations thereof.

Why did I tell you of such a disgraceful activity? Because this particular period in the deuce era had some warning signs in the wipe watch. Certain colors were included in the anal art that do not belong. The doctors say if you see black in your stool, you should seek help immediately. Not mental help because of you are looking at your stool, but a physician to examine your innards. Black stool generally means you have internal bleeding deep within your intestine. Red in the stool is less worrisome, but still something you are supposed to call your doctor about. Red obviously means blood. And while you may think bleeding is normal (especially if you are constantly ripping out ridiculous dumps like I have), it could be a sign of many different bad things.

So in the days leading up to the dump heard around my world, there were a few warning signs. While the art looked beautiful (I mean what's better to spice up a little brown or green than a splash of beautiful red?), it was not a good sign. A bad sign, though, that I failed to recognize. Then, one day my life came into focus. A day that I clearly learned I had a deuce problem. Like Neo choosing the Red Pill, I could never go back even though I really wished I could. It happened on a normal day. Maybe not a truly normal day, but a somewhat normal day nonetheless. I had drank a lot of beer the night before. I had a large chipotle burrito with corn salsa. The day before, I had a tough deuce to force out. Since that deuce, I had eaten a lot of food. And on this fateful day, I had plenty to release. It wasn't a completely miserable deuce, but it was plentiful and it certainly wasn't pleasant. I can't remember all the the specifics of it, but I know it was a deuce I wish I never had. After surviving the discomfort, I first took a look at the splatter on the toilet paper. This was bizarre. The entire paper was covered in red. Now, I had seen pink, or splashes of red over the brown. But this was just red. A dark scarlet red. Somewhat alarmed, I finished the business and stood to take in a bird's eye view of my accomplishment. And this folks, was no accomplishment. To my dismay, the entire bowl was red. There was a mound of normal deuce in there (with some yellow kernels of corn, of course), but the water looked as if Moses had been there. There were also drops of an even darker red on top of the Mount Dueceai. It was like Moses had in fact been there, but instead of delivering one of God's plagues, he was offering me the eleventh commandment: If thy have rectal dysfunction, thou shalt fix it.

I took this bloody bowl to be my burning bush and listened intently. I immediately called my doctor. And shortly afterward, I regretted it.

To be continued...

The Bluddeanous Period Part 1

There are certain problems that a solution is far worse than the problem itself. This is well beyond that. I can only share this story, because I survived. With little dignity intact, but survived nonetheless. Now don't worry. This isn't going to be a scary, edge of your seat thriller including near-death experiences. Just a series of events that changed the way I look at doctors, Popsicle sticks and corn. But before I get to all the details, I should point out that this is a truthful tale that cannot fit in a single blog entry. So sit back and be prepared to learn about the Bluddeanous Period of the Deuce Era.
To be honest, I didn't really realize that I wasn't normal during the Mesopantsazoic Period. Now you might ask a reasonable question: "How many times do you have to nearly crap your pants before you know something's wrong?" Sadly, I can't answer that question. That urgent run to the deucer occurred more times than I could remember. I am more Watson that Sherlock Holmes. I was just too naive to piece it all together. This is a period long before The Deuce Diaries. A time when I was still embarrassed of the fact that I took dumps, let alone watery squirts in random places in front of random people. I could tell no one. And in turn, no one told me that most people go to the bathroom in clean toilets with toilet paper. Then, the dawn of the Bluddeanous Period changed my world forever. Like finding out the lead singer of Wham! was gay, the discovery was so obvious I felt like a Corky for not realizing it. And of course, it all started with a single dump.

To be continued...