I finally remembered where the line "The dead LIVE!" was from. It was Sam Kinison, referring to what I believe was the resurrection of Jeebus. Not that I spent the 80s and 90s watching non-stop comedians, but the ferret line is also from a comic, describing his hemorrhoids to his doctor. I thought it was funny then, and it's twice as funny now that it actually applies (though in an attempt to be original, I told mine that I felt as though I was "shitting cacti."
I spent yesterday evening sitting in a bathtub, trying to relieve what I described to my wife as S.P.S. (Sore Pooper Syndrome). Like anything, the anus is susceptible to wear and tear. Thirty-eight years of passing feces through a small passage can take it's toll on a small orifice, and mine is no exception. I remember it started on a trip to Europe, where my cooley was starting to itch non-stop. I attributed it to traveling, perhaps sub-standard toilet paper, and the general uncleanliness that accompanies prolonged travel, but even a good rinse in the bidet didn't assuage the discomfort. Damn.
That wore off after a while until a few years later, when I broke my collar bone and was put on medication. Apparently, painkillers and other assorted goods end up giving your crap the density of dried out Play-Doh. After three or four days of being bound up, (an expression I heard as a kid, but never experienced) I decided to give it the old Lamaze treatment, of breathing, standing up and flexing every muscle from my sternum to my knees to clean out my innards. It worked, but, like giving birth, it tore stuff up (hemorrhoids, I came to find out later, are also produced by the pushing women do while giving birth).
After that, the itch returned, but now it was accompanied by the occasional crimson blot on my premium blend shit tickets. Great, now my asshole is bleeding. Normally, this is cause for alarm, but I put two and two together and realized what the cause was. I thought it best not to talk about it to anyone:
"By the way, did your asshole ever bleed?" or
"Hey doc. Everything's fine. No complaints, except that my asshole bleeds."
Pretty embarrassing stuff, especially in our inhibited culture.
Phase Three of the destruction of Prego's asshole came this weekend... No blood but, "Goddamn, what the f*ck is this pain all about?!" I don't make a habit of twiddling around with the poop-chute in the shower, but I was curious. What the hell hurt so much? As I washed out the crack with soap, I felt bumps where there shouldn't be bumps. Damn, now there's protrusion. Great. Immediately, my thoughts raced around colon cancer and other drastic maladies. I attributed it to the progressive deterioration of what was once a completely functional and pain-free anus.
At this point, I guess I have to resort to sending my wife out to buy Preparation H, to save me the embarrassment. Heck, she can say she just gave birth. Eventually, I have to discuss polyps and whatnot with my general practitioner and subject myself to colonoscopies and other intrusive procedures that scientists are constantly trying to revolutionize. Yes, at some point, I hope that all they have to do is give me a milkshake and make me sit bare assed on a Xerox-like machine. Unfortunately, that kind of technology is not available, and I get to look forward to getting poked and prodded, making me feel like the bitch in the prison cell.
As for the other problem... drinking lots of water, eating lots of bran, and avoiding the usual diet of pizza and bananas might help for a while. And I guess I have to overcome my inhibitions and let a proctologist ply his trade.