A Story About Poop and God

This is a story about poop.  All the horrible things that happen when you don’t poop.  And the terrible places you’ll visit when you don’t poop for long enough that your bi-weekly movement is undistinguishable from passing a very upset badger through that same orifice.

I scheduled my gastroenterologist appointment at the Florida Medical Center on Bruce B. Downs, just a hop and skip from my apartment.  The waiting room was spacious, open, comfortable – dare I say, well ventilated?  I expected constipated farts, high-tech concavity-type ventilation systems.*  Not so.  Though, there was an ancient wraith of a woman being fireman carried past me as I left.  I can only imagine her destination was a very thorough extraction chamber.

I set into filling out the mandatory paperwork, noticeably filling out nearly every check under the digestive systems section (as opposed to heart, brain, skin, etc.).

Constipation? Yup.

Gassy? Is there any other feeling?

Diarrhea? Only when I eat.

Hemorrhoids? His name is Victor, he’s my butt knuckle.

I sat at the concave of a U-shape of chairs .  To my right was an older woman facing away from me.  After a few minutes sitting there, she engaged a younger woman on my left, who turned to face the old woman.  The younger was in her late 30s or early 40s, she had short hair, a bright smile and bunny rabbit eyes.

The older woman spoke: You have such nice hair.

The younger was a little taken aback.  Her hair was cropped boyishly short with cowlicks.  Your standard issue militant lesbian haircut.

“And I love your face too.  Your hair and your face are wonderful.”

I snickered to myself at the unfolding of such embarrassingly open senility.  I glanced knowingly at the lesbian who laughed nervously and thanked the senile woman.

I turned in my paperwork and returned to my same seat, not wanting to miss my chance for real life train wrecks.  And Lo! I was rewarded.

Again the senile woman emphasized how beautiful the lesbian’s hair and eyes and smile and face are.  More polite embarrassment, more snickers and nervous laughter.

About 15 minutes passed and another old woman came to collect the senile one.  Of course, if she’s bat shits enough to start doling out compliments to strangers in the waiting room of the Shit doctor, she shouldn’t be fucking driving.

Before the ancient accoster left, she told her collector about the face and hair, out of earshot of the lesbian but nearer to me.  Her collector agreed about the face and hair and eyes.

They cooed over to the lesbian about her face and hair and eyes.  More nervous laughter.  Then the original senile accoster approached the lesbian to whisper-distance and spoke.  The lesbian flushed with the knowledge she’d been gifted by this constipated, Swiss cheese-brained grandma.  The two elderlys shuffled out for good.

About two relief soaked minutes later, the lesbian, who turned out to be Spanish and probably not at all a lesbian, made a phone call.  She gabbed along in Spanish and I caught that she was rehashing the Incident, laughing nervously and grasping for comforting words from friends and loved ones.

She told the phone that the old woman said: “God is with you, I can see it” in your face, and your dykey haircut and wide-angle-lens rabbit eyes.  The lesbian raced along in Spanish until she stumbled on the word llorar and then wept.  She wept with joy, or sadness – I wish I could say it was the sudden grip of insanity that made her cry, but that’s wishful thinking.

A stranger had blessed her. A stranger of dubious mental fortitude.  A stranger had reached out and touched her soul with senile and constipated babbling.

The Spanish woman with poor haircut choices sobbed along a little, wrapped up her phone call, summarized triumphantly to her phone how great it feels to receive God’s blessing and Love.  No hint of irony at all in her voice.


*If you haven’t read Infinite Jest, this sentence isn’t for you. Move along.


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