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Manual Disimpaction

So last night, I learned about my new favorite thing, anywhere. I'd like to share it with you, because, well, I would like to simultaneously fascinate you and make you ill. I have learned about a wonderful thing called Manual Disimpaction. You see, one of my friends is a nurse. If you know any nurses, you MUST ask them for horror stories from their jobs. They are FASCINATING. My radiant wife and I had dinner with a perfectly charming friend of ours the other night, who is basically days from being a full-fledged nurse, and she shared something with me that just rocked my world. This may say more about me than anything else, but well, there you go.

Anyway. Where was I? Oh, yes. Manual Disimpaction. What is it?

OK. Let's deal with hypotheticals here. Suppose, hypothetically, you're a 60-year old guy. And, hypothetically, you're a diabetic. And you've just spent the last several months eating nothing but beef and water. Mmmmm. Beef.

Oh, and you're a heroin addict.

So one night, after eating a particularly rich, thick, fatty New York steak, you lean back in your chair, pat your stomach, and realize your tummy is a bit sore. Thinking back, you realize you haven't moved your bowels for like a week. Hmmm. Hmmmmm. Now, you're a sensible old, diabetic, beef-eating heroin addict, so you do what any other sensible old, diabetic, beef eating heroin addict would do. You wait for a week. Then, when nothing else comes out, so you toddle off to the hospital.

Now, at the hospital, you are treated by my friend. I don't want to say her real name, so I'll refer to her by a pseudonym: Joanne. So Joanne is put in charge of you, and your problem is a pretty simple one. They gotta' clear all that used beef out of there. So, first they try simple medications. They give you laxatives, and prune juice, and prunes, and Mueslix, and bran, big, heaping handfuls of bran. But still no go. No avalanche. No beef.

So next, it's time for what they call, in the medical business, the Festival of Enemas. First water. Then lubricant. Then soapy water. Then, well, I can't remember all the different things they try. Crankcase oil. Mazola. Pepsi. I don't know. All sorts of amusing stuff.

But still, no go. Literally. You've tried the pistol and the rifle, and still didn't hit the target. It's time to pull out THE BIG GUNS.

It's time for Manual Disimpaction.

This is a great phrase, ya' know. It's kind of poetic. It rolls off the tongue. Like exsanguinate, or crack whore. Pure poetry.

But what is it? Oh, like you can't fucking guess. I mean, honestly! Do I have to fucking do everything? What happens is that Joanne (not her real name) comes into her room. She looks nervous, but ready to do her duty, like the privates going on shore in Saving Private Ryan. You watch as she puts on a glove. And then another glove. And then another on top of that, and applies lubricant. Lots of it. You are asked to expose your hindquarters. There is a moment of silence, eerie deathlike silence. All creation holds its breath in wonder. You have but a moment to think to yourself, "There is no God." And then the Manual Disimpaction begins.

Beef city.

You know, I'm a happily engaged man. I am honored to soon be marrying the most wonderful woman on God's Green Earth. But let me tell you something. If I lived in some weird, bizarre, nightmare universe in which my fiancee did not exist, I would ask Joanne (not her real name) out in, like, 3 milliseconds. Because, you see, a woman who is capable of sticking her arm up a guy's ass, rooting around, clearing everything out, and having a big laugh about it later is CLEARLY A WOMAN TO BE RECKONED WITH.

Whew. Too much fun.

Three other notes.

i. I wonder what a Manual Impaction is like. Probably involves an English boarding school.

ii. Believe it or not, I have left out the grossest details of the story.

iii. I wrote a little poem about Manual Disimpaction. It's charming.

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