Medical Malady Alert, Home Treatment Ineffective


OK. First of all, please stop calling to tell me you feel sorry for me. Your kind thoughts are appreciated, but I didn’t tell you my thoughts on child rape for sympathy. I told you because somebody needed to tell you, and I felt compelled to run for the office. Also, please stop forwarding the e-letter that says, “You are a heretic and a devil worshiper… and for all Eternity may you burn in hell.”

If any of you Catholics actually have your own clear thoughts regarding what I said about the Vatican, tell me in your own words. Fifteen-thousand identical e-mails from Catholics around the world are not communication, it’s mindless spam. I stopped reading them after like the first three hundred. Don’t you see that you validate many of my points when you do that shit? Stop allowing others to do your thinking.

Hell, I’ll make you an offer. If any one of you can present a clear and concise argument that will show me to be wrong, I will publish it here. If you convince me I’m wrong, I will admit it and apologize. Send me a comment and state your case.

But if all you’ve got is a form letter that sounds like it came from the inner bowels of Rome, then I repeat myself- fuck the Vatican!

So. Here’s the deal I had wanted to discuss with you before the Catholic Church distracted me. Somebody took the spiked iron ball from the end of the chain on a medieval mace, and put a dense wax coating on it. The wax is thick so as to make it a big smooth ball with no points sticking through. One night when SAC Ellen, Dixie the Squirt and I were out to Fort Davis and I was sleeping like a baby, they inserted the waxy ball up my ass.

When I awoke the next morning, I had significant pressure back there. Dense, dull pain that radiated from my prostate to my coccyx. I was uncomfortable, and got somewhat grouchy from it, but I just figured I was getting a visit from Eric and Lyle. I named my hemorrhoids after the Menendez brothers, you know, the boys who shotgunned their parents to get the insurance money.

My two little guys pay me periodic visits. But it isn’t rugby season, their favorite time of year, and they don’t have any friends out to West Texas, so I was surprised. But I welcomed them. It is always safer to embrace your butt bundles rather than fight them. But, they wouldn’t talk to me, they only pained me.

Their silence concerned me for their health because they are chatty little guys. But, starting the second morning after I started feeling their pain, it got worse. What was happening was that the wax was slowly melting to expose the sharp spikes on the mace ball. Once the wax started melting, it accelerated both the exposed lengths of the pointy spikes, and the pain.

Excruciating pain.

When I got home to the ranch, it hurt so much that I attached a vice grip to my tongue to take my mind off the pain in my ass. I couldn’t sit, couldn’t stand or lie or walk, without this pain. It hurt so much in the middle of the night that I woke Mother and Gram to look at what was going on back there. Please trust me when I tell you that consulting those two on a medical malady requires absolute desperation.

I was desperate.

The metal spikes up my ass were stabbing my colon, prostate, all the muscles and glands in the region, and my butt bones as well. “Pleesh, Grmam,” I pleaded. “Do thuthin’.”

“Oh fer shit sakes Mooner. Get that gripper offen yur tongue and talk lik a man.” This from the leathery old gas bag I call Gram.

I removed the vise grip and massaged blood back into my tongue. “Please look at my butt and tell me what’s going on. It feels like I’m packing a load of ten penny nails back there.”

After maybe ten minutes of my mother and grandmother inspecting my pained areas, Gram says to Mother, she said, “Go an git me tha sewin’ basket, a bucket and my potion bag, Mother. I’m a goin’ in.”

As we waited for Mother to return with the surgery kit, Gram says, “Look a here, Mooner. Whatcha been eatin? Yur all stoved up lik when you was a kid an ate all them cotton balls.”

I ate a big box of cotton balls on a dare in second grade. Washed them down with Nehi Grape Soda. Dr. Ashburn’s daughter, Suzy, was the one who dared me, and Dr. Ashburn the one who got them out of me. Have you ever swallowed just one cotton ball?

“I’ve been on a diet that moves things along smoothly, Gram,” I told her. “This isn’t constipation, it’s an invasion.”

So my Gram and Mother are in yellow plastic kitchen gloves and hairnets, and I’m on the kitchen floor on my hands-and-knees, ass waving in the air. We always operate in the kitchen because it has the best light. Well, it has the best light and a drain in the floor so you can wash spilled fluids away with a hose.

The two of them are pressed close together, heads ear-to-ear as they study my butt from close in. “I’m gonna stick this here needle inta somthin, Mooner. Now don’t you jump er else you’ll be one a them sheesh kaboom jobbies. I’m usin’ a knittin’ needle on account a the size a this thing.”

“Wait,” I said. ” Are you nuts? Please don’t skewer me Gram.”

I told Mother, “Get me a Carta Blanca and one of Gram’s pain potions before you poke me. That’s a sensitive area and it already hurts.” Didn’t John Wayne always knock back a stiff one before he let the Doc start cutting on him?

I drank my potion and a few beers while the family matrons discussed their procedures and cures. When they had their plans solidified, Mother says to me, she says, “Alright Butcher, you bite down on this wooden spoon and be real still.”

Have I told you that my given name is Butcher?

I got good purchase to the thick, white oak wood spoon with my teeth, and clenched my eyes shut tight. The spoon was carved by a famous musician from a tree that fell there to the ranch. He was staying with us there to the ranch when he was getting over a little problem he was having with Scotch. We take in stray people as well as stray animals like Rick Perry, ostrich.

But I am ADHD’ing a major digression if I don’t get back on subject.

The two women whispered and gently prodded for a bit, and then Gram says, “OK, Mooner, this is it. Yur gonna feel a little sting.”

I did feel a slight sting, but I was so stoned from Gram’s hallucinogenic potion that I was unsure where the pain came from. What I heard was an, “Oh, my!” then a, “Oh, my God,” followed by gagging and the sound my mother makes when she faints and crumples to the floor.

Mother faints often, and with little provocation.

“What’s going on Gram, is Mother OK?” About now I could begin to tell the origins of my pain through my drugged haze, and it was starting to hurt again.

“Oh, dear God, Mooner. You done rotted from tha inside. Ya smell lik a two-week dead cow an theys somethin a oozin out yur ass looks like devil juice.”

My Gram won’t tell me what devil juice is, but I know it must be truly awful if she won’t speak of it.

Then Gram lit the little blow torch I use to make cream brulee and set the flame to the knitting needle. “OK Mooner, this’ll hurt a touch more. I need ta caramelize this spot ta stop tha oozin’.”

Have you ever been to your dermatologist to get spots burned off your face? I have, and many times. Do you know the worst part of those visits? It’s not the needles stuck in your face, or the burning sensation when they freeze your face as anesthetic, or even the sharp pain of the laser as it rids you of the offending precancerous blob.

It’s the smell. The smell of your own burning flesh is the worse smell in the world.

Gram heated the tip of her needle until it glowed bright red. “Be still Mooner, I don’t wanna brand yur holie shut.”

That made two of us. Next sound was the sizzle of flesh, followed by a small cloud of smoke and poisonous gas.

I came to at precisely 6:03:02 am, which had to be three hours after my last memory. I knew the time with such precision because I awoke staring at the digital clock on the oven. I was on my side on the kitchen floor with both Mother and Gram in limp bundles at my feet.

The previous night’s surgeries had done nothing to ease my pain, and had added a layer of charred meat throb to the mix. After I got the girls awake and sitting with coffee to the big cypress slab table in the kitchen, I said, “Look, I know you guys mean well. But I need to go see Dr. John about this one.”

“Cudn’t git me back down there fer all the china in India,” was Gram’s response. “Asides, now I know what burned Devil’s juice smells lik. Won’t be needing no reminders.”

Mother just sighed deeply and looked green to the gills.

I got bathed and dressed and went to see Dr. John, my trusted family guy. He’s a good doctor and with an actual sense of humor. He inspected me and said, “Well, Mooner, is it getting better, or worse?

“Worse, and by leaps and bounds,” I answered.

OK,” the good Doc started, “What you’ve got is either an infected or impacted gland, or what amounts to the biggest boil I have ever seen. Since it’s getting worse, let’s get my buddy to fix you up.”

Dr. John pulled out his cell phone and called Dr. Rodney Ashworth, explained the problem and then finished by saying, “He’s on his way.”

For my entire life, I have had the job to express the anal glands on our dogs. It’s a stinky, messy job, but a very important part of dog relationship management. I take care of Dixie and now the Squirt as well. First time I see them dragging their ass with their back feet poking in the air, I expresserate.

Did you know that humans have quite similar fixtures in our anal regions? Did you know that those glandular-like fixtures can become infected and impacted?

And hurt?

Since these fixtures are located in close proximity to fecal central, they can become infected quite easily. Either having poor buttocks hygiene, not my problem, or excessively stringent hygiene, will cause these infections.

Since I scrub back there like I was washing road tar off a car bumper, my infection likely came from the too much attention caused variety. You can also get infected through bad luck.

Anyway, I get to Dr. Ashworth’s place, show my cards and fill out the paperwork, and they show me right in to a room. My blood pressure was taken- 106 over 62, which made me proud. Then I waited maybe 30 seconds alone and in walks the Doc. I could tell right away why he and Dr. John are buddies. He’s one of those men that have no airs about them, knows how to talk to patients respectfully, actually talks to patients respectfully, and he has a great sense of humor.

Personally, I don’t want a man whose got no sense of humor messing around anywhere near my ass. My opinion, you must have a great sense of humor or be a sadist with a strong stomach to work on another man’s ass. I’m not letting a sadist near my gorgeous behind.

After a pretty quick exam, the Doc told me it was for sure a big boil, he gave me some shots of local anesthetic and left me alone a few minutes to numb up. When I couldn’t feel anything, he incised the boil in several spots and expelled as much of the infection as he could, cleaned me up and gave me instructions for post-op care.

While he was working on me, he told me that in the old days before antibiotics, having an infection with expellable pus was a good thing. Just like with my ass, when you cut it open and drain it, it gets better. If you couldn’t drain the infection, that meant that it would take antibiotics to effect a cure.

I’m guessing that’s one of the reasons people didn’t live so long back then.

The reason I told you about all of this is the fact that this sort of problem occurs more often than you might think. So I’m doing this as a sort of Public Service Announcement. If you feel a lump on your ass or have pain radiating down there, go see a doctor quick. The longer you wait, the more you’ll suffer. Besides, you could have something more serious than a boil.

It’s only been hours since I got home and started doing my sitz bath routine, and I feel like a new man. I’m sitting in the tub now, having myself a cold Carta Blanca beer and some of Gram’s pickled veggies she and the P-cubed made the other week.

Maybe I need to talk to SAC Ellen about expressing my anal glands for me on some kind of a schedule. Think she’ll do it out of love?

Manana, ya’ll.

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