A BUTT FULL OF BLOOD - PART TWO

Nothing’s worse than a butt full of blood.

Okay, so maybe I’m exaggerating a tiny bit. There are probably a bunch of things worse. At the very least, a blood-butt is deserving of a spot on the list. I’m not saying it needs to be in the top ten or even the top thirty. I won’t go that far. I do want it on the list, though.

Somewhere in the top hundred, at least. I’m thinking that ninety-eight might be a comfortable little spot.

At least give me ninety-eight.

I’m not just talking out of my ass here people (which is a fantastic little play on words). I can say without an ounce of hesitation that a butt full of blood legitimately sucks. It sucks hard. It sucks harder than the time I used the vacuum for my own sickening sexual perversions.

You see, about a year and a half ago, I was admitted to the hospital when massive amounts of blood began spraying from my rectum. At first, most of the staff assumed it was simply a busted hemorrhoid. It became obvious to all involved that something was seriously wrong when I passed out during a routine x-ray and woke up in a disgustingly warm pool of my own fecal insides.

There was a lot of blood—a whole lot—and a fair amount of poop to boot.

In fact, I’d lost so much blood from the hole between my cheeks that the doctors considered a transfusion. The biggest problem was that no one seemed quite sure where inside my body it was coming from.

When they shoved a camera down my throat, they found nothing. This meant that whatever was happening, was happening in the lower half. It also meant they would have to insert another camera into me from below.

Yep, I was going to get it from both ends.

Air tight, baby.

Before the second camera could begin its march from the southernmost caverns of poo, a nurse shoved a tube up my nose and down my throat in order to feed a gallon or so of something called Golightly Colon Cleanse directly into my belly.

Let me just say that the name Golightly is a massive misnomer.

It should be called Goheavy or Gountiltheresnothingleft or even Gosomuchyoullbecomedisgustedwithyourselfandlifeingeneral.

Unfortunately, the doctors needed me as clean and empty as I could get before they went in, and they needed it to happen quickly. I spent the night emptying the blood-coated contents of my intestines into a tiny plastic toilet next to the bed. The bathroom was too far away, I could barely walk, and it was the only option.

It was awful.

It was shameful.

It was awful, and it was shameful, and it smelled worse.

It was more embarrassing than when my grandma saw me for the first time in ten years and proclaimed to everyone in the room, “Stevie! You got fat!”

Every hour on the hour, I’d roll from my bed, peel the disgusting, blood-sticky, poo-encrusted gown from my butt cheeks, and squat over a bucket so small it nearly wedged itself between my pasty orbs. When I was done, the nurse would empty it, clean it out, and set it up for me to destroy again.

Early in the morning, the family of the old guy in the next bed over came to visit. The smell of my shame hit one of them square in the face, and she nearly collapsed. Her husband lowered his head, covered his nose with his forearm, and looked at me like I was a terrorist on my way to blow up the Capitol. I responded the only way I could—with a very 1980’s sitcom-esque shoulder shrug.

Unfortunately, there wasn’t any laugh track.

It would have been funnier with a laugh track.

Even my wife couldn’t manage to stay in the room with me for more than twenty minutes at a time. She kept finding excuses to exit for a breather.

“I think I might have left the stove on at home.”

“I need to ask the nurse something.”

“The Joker is blowing up banks in Gotham. I should probably take care of that.”

Thankfully, the probing of my backside later that day offered up an answer to the bloody shit storm I’d unleashed on my wife, the nurses, and the family of my poor, poor roommate. It was a polyp.

Not just any polyp, mind you. No, this was the George the Animal Steele of polyps. It was massive, and it was hairy, and it liked to chew on the ring post. It also had the hots for Miss Elizabeth at one point, but that’s another story entirely.

The doctors said they’d never seen one quite like it.

Aren’t I special?

Apparently, this oversized lump growing from the walls of my intestines ruptured and was bleeding. When it was done bleeding, it decided to bleed some more and seemingly had no interest in deviating from the norm.

The surgeons chopped it out and sent it off to the lab to see if it was cancerous—which it wasn’t—and that's precisely why this particular bout of bloody-butt is only at ninety-eight on the list.

After another twenty-four hours in the hospital, they were ready to send me home. I hadn’t showered or cleaned myself in days. My backside was coated in blood and speckled with poop. I was crinkly, I was crusty, I was stinky, and I wanted to go home.

Turned out the male nurse tasked with the job of pulling the various wires from my flesh was in a bit of a rush as well. Instead of sliding the needle from my arm in the gentle manner I was expecting, he ripped it away like he’d caught me sleeping with his wife.

Immediately, the dime-sized hole in my arm started to gush.

“Do you eat a lot of salad?”

That’s what he had the nerve to ask me.

“What?”

“This is really bleeding. You need to start eating more salad.”

Salad, huh?

Boffo advice, Mr. ShitPullWires.

Next time my ass starts to spit blood like something from the set of Evil Dead 2, I’ll just grab myself a handful of iceberg lettuce.