Enter at Your Own Risk- An Ass Surgery Primer


So. I’m organizing the week around my big ass operation scheduled for this Friday. I’ve got to be to the surgical center by 6 am sharp, wearing loose-fitting clothes and having had nothing to eat or drink since midnight Thursday. Gram and Dixie have agreed to take me.

That means that I need to eat everything I plan to eat before Thursday night and do some laundry. I figure loose-fitting means sweats and all my sweats are dirty. It also means that the three of us will be crammed into Gram’s Ferrari for the trip both ways.

I wonder if my post operative care includes packing my ass in ice.

I’m nervous about this surgery. I mean nervous in a way that’s different from what everyone goes through when they face an invasive procedure. See, this is my ass we’re talking about here, not my brain or my face or my heart.

My ass is where I make my money. If it wasn’t for my beautiful ass, and my ability to display it in stirring fashion, you would not even know who I am. There would be no book, no blog and no stories to tell.

Simply put, without my ass, there would be no “Mooner” in Butcher Einstein “Mooner” Johnson.

My butt is my identity. My entire life revolves around my ass. I would be lost without it. I’d have no place to hide my head when I get stupid. I’d have nothing out of which to pull miracles, when I get cornered. I’d be lost.

I guess this would be like if Pamela Anderson had lumps in her boobies, or if Angelina Jolie had a lip problem.

For new readers, the surgery is to investigate my anal cavity area to seek answers as to why I continue to have “seepage” from a previous surgical site, said site resulting from efforts to provide relief to infected anal glands.

Dr. Ashworth’s explanation of the procedure went like this, “We’ll need to find a spot to enter the area, Mooner. A place that provides access and causes as little harm to the surrounding flesh as possible. Then, we’ll cut a pathway as we go, working our way around any significant structures. We have to go deep into the cavity, explore all or that territory to root-out problem spots. We’ll mitigate the problems and then we’ll work our way out.”

Sounded like he was going spelunking.

I was reminded of Junior High School History Class when we were studying about explorers. Admiral Byrd was one guy I admired as a kid. But he explored the flat, icy extremes of our planet. Stark, naked and frozen extremities were his specialty. I think Admiral Byrd was a stark-raving lunatic.

Actually, I think most of the old timey explorers were lunatics. You’d have to be crazy to do some of the shit they did.

The explorer I began to focus upon was Francisco de Orellana, the Spaniard who discovered the Amazon River in 1541. The symbolism between navigating the Amazon River the first time, and my anal cavity surgery, is scary. Think about it. He was a crazy fucking Catholic Spaniard and went about converting all of the natives he found.

“It’s Christ, or die, you heathen.”

Some took the Christ option and many died.

Anyway, I’m worried that I’ll get some nasty scars on my ass that will limit my ass shows. There’s only so many ways to use Frankenstein and Scarface in a moon show.

And speaking of Catholics, my buddy, Bobby, called me all pissed off. He caught a bunch of flak from when I mentioned his name in that bloggie posting about St. Louis of France Cathedral and the screw job they put on Temple Beth Shalom for Yom Kippur.

“My family knows we’re buddies, Mooner. Why’d you have to use my name?”

Turns out his sisters, Sarah Elizabeth and Mary Catherine, both attend over to St. Louis.

“SE and MC came to Sunday dinner,” Bobby instructed, “and you need to be prepared, Mooner. They think you went too far with all that stuff you said about the Pope, and all.”

Then he asked me, “Did you really say the Pope was homosexual?”

Ooopsie. “Well, I didn’t exactly say that he’s gay, Bobby. I just said that I think it likely that the Pope would prefer bedding Prince Charles over the Queen.”

“Oh sweet Jesus and his virgin mother,” Bobby almost cried. “Please don’t use my name in your propaganda again.”

“Well look at how he dresses, Bobby. He dresses gayer than the Follies Bergere.”

“Don’t make it worse, Mooner.”

“Sorry,” I told him. “I won’t do it again.”

But propaganda?

Is this one of those times when I have managed to fuck up commonality of interest, again? I don’t know if I’ll ever get that one right. Just because you have something in common with a person doesn’t insure they’ll be interested in what you say. Or that they’ll like it.

Then, Gram came to see me just before I started writing this posting. “Mooner, honey, I’m gonna formie-late ya a potion fer yer proceedins.” She handed me an empty Carta Blanca bottle and a cork stopper.

“Now go an piss inta that bottle an cork er up.”

I went to the bathroom and did as asked. When I handed the now warm bottle back, I asked, “What’s that for. Gram?”

“I’m expeir-mo-latin with one a them key-lime-o-late dealies, Mooner. Callin this one It’s about time Mooner pissed on his ownself.

“It’s chelation, Gram, and it only works for pregnant ladies.”

“Who gives a shit, Mooner. I been wantin ta try this fer a time.”

I wonder if the chemical structure of my urine will effect the medicinal properties of the magic mushroom juice that is the foundation of all my Gram’s potions? I wonder if I get really stoned on Gram’s potion if I can do the surgery without any added anesthesia. It might be fun to watch Dr. Ashworth tunnel through my anal cavity.

I could drink Carta Blanca beer and cheer him on while he works on me. Maybe bring some nachos.

Fact is, my ass hurts now, so I’m going to crack the first Carta Blanca of the day. Manana, y’all.

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