“
Now reading
Colonoscopy
Talk about intimacy! I'd almost rather not. The day before, a tussle with nausea (DRINK ME: a liter of sickly-sweet liquid) and diarrhea, so as to present oneself pristine as a bride to the groom with his tools, his probe and tiny TV camera and honeyed words. He has a tan, just back from a deserved vacation from his accustomed nether regions. Begowned, recumbent on one's side, one views through uprolled eyes the screen whereon one's big intestine snakes sedately by, its segments marked by tidy annular construction-seams as in a prefab tunnel slapped up by the mayor's son-in-law. A sudden wash of sparkling liquid shines in the inserted light, and hairpin turns loom far ahead and soon are vaulted past impalpably; we float, we fall, we veer in these soft, pliant passages spelunked by everything one eats. Then all goes dark, as God intended it whenever He sealed shut in Adam's abdomen life's slimy, twisting, smelly miracle. The bridegroom's voice, below the edge of sight like buried treasure, announces, "Perfect. Not a polyp. See you in five years." Five years? The funhouse may have folded.