Finding meaning at the end of a tiny camera

HELLO!

My name is Luis and today marks my first foray into the blogsphere! I say blogshpere not knowing if that’s what it’s called. With my luck, the “blogsphere” is akin to saying the “internets” or “the World Wide Web”. Hey, I’m savvy enough to know when I’m not hip, so kindly ignore the mistake if it is indeed being made. For now:

Welcome to my blog printed up fresh on the blogsphere! It’s a place where my fractured psyche can dazzle you with its many bizarre and pot-induced thoughts! Now I know you’re asking yourself, "with so many blogs out there on the World Wide Web, why read this? Who is this Hispanic sounding man and why should I stop watching Dexter to read his blog?"

Well dummy, why ask questions? What the fuck, you think it’s easy for me to share my feelings? To put my words out here for your fucking amusement? I’ll fuck your mom, you stupid shit! [Edit this passage. It shows you have an explosive temper and it may alienate your readers…Dr. Bernard]

BECAUSE:

It shall be a place for general merriment! An exquisite blend of reality and art! A chance for ten million dollars in cash prizes! [Be more honest with your feelings…. Dr. Bernard]

I’ll level with you. There are no prizes, but I will occasionally write about dumb or inane thing that could be mildly amusing. Because here is where I will share with you the way I ACTUALLY see the world. And although I’m not as interesting as say, Kelly Clarkson, I am someone who has for the last few years been writing a journal in a notebook like a damn fool. Recently I realized, much like an elderly man realizes he’s been drooling on himself in the cold when he enters the bus, that I could put my writings on-line and call it a “blog” and make myself feel like I’m actually doing something with my time. As one of those artistic types roaming the Parkdale village in Toronto, this delusion is very important to me. But more important then all that was how this all began.

You see the other day I had a colonoscopy. Yes, that camera that goes up your ass and up through your digestive tract was up MY ass and as luck would have it, heading straight up my digestive tract. My doctor informed me that although I was a young buck I was going to need one which completely freaked me out as one often gets at the thought of such an invasive procedure. As it turns out, I have been losing red blood cells without explanation and it required the kind of investigation that brought us chills in such movies as “Fire in the sky”. Yes, it was that sci-fi genre trope that everyone and Lucas has used in the past: the alien probe. The sterile finger of science shoved uncaringly up the rectum.

Now mind you this fear was not born out of some childish heterosexual anxiety; I’m down with ass play in a controlled and loving environment. So please do not confuse this with some hockey room boys club notion of anal penetration, because this man fears not the brown town. No, It was the multiple FEET of camera that gave me the spooks. This thing was going in and it was going all the way. Through the lower intestine and out to the Promised Land.

And to make a shitty situation (ha) shittier, I also had to get a camera down my throat and into my stomach. I was to be spit-roasted like a glazed pig. A rotisserie chicken in a twisted chamber of cruelty. My thoughts turned to unimaginable torture. How was I to know the whole thing would be so damn enjoyable?

Let me qualify that: I’m someone who like to have things done to him. Okay, that doesn’t sound right. Rather, I like to have work done on me. I love the barber, for instance. Or say, going to the dentist. As I get older, I feel this narcissistic need to be important, and having professionals fawn on you kind of gives you that feeling. Sort of like in movies when you see the mob boss getting his face shaved with a straight razor or a pharaoh being fanned by a huge feather. It is the modern day equivalent of, “wench, get me my mead,” Now it’s, “Tony, a little off the top”. I say take what you can get.

So I didn’t mind in some ways having that “thing” to talk about. You know how it goes:

Mom: So what’s going on?

Luis: I’m having a colonostopy.

Mom: What?

Luis: A huge camera going up my ass.

Mom: Oh my god. Are you going to be okay?

Luis: Yes but I may need money, clothes and food.

Mom: Whatever you need son.

Luis: Great. I got to go now, I’m playing Frisbee golf and my friends are waiting for me to shoot.

OR

Friend: (crying) Man, Jenna isn’t even answering my calls anymore man. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, I can’t go to work because I’ll see her, I just don’t know what the fuck to do! I’m so alone and I miss her so much.

Luis: Dude, I’m going to have a ten-foot camera up my ass.

Friend: That sucks dude. I’m sorry.

Luis: It’s cool.

You know I just liked having that something to make me feel real. And it was all going great until the day before the procedure.

If you have had a colonoscopy done to you, then you know it’s the day BEFORE that actually kills you. Not only do you take two pills of a strong laxative named Ducolax whilst spending two days on a NO DAIRY, NO RED LIQIUD, NO FIBRE and NO SEED diet (which leaves only sugar and beef as food options… I ate the Bacon-ater twice in two days), you have to drink (and this is not a typo) 4 LITRES of powerful bowel cleaner KLEAN-PREP which essentially turns you into a human Frosty machine.

Note: I apologize, as I write this I am getting very hungry and I have a ridiculous craving for Wendy’s, so I apologize for the overuse of Wendy’s related metaphors above.


So the day of the toilet was an unpleasant speed bump. But the procedure itself? Just dandy.

Let’s skip to the good stuff. So I get to the hospital. I wait in a room for thirty minutes although I’m on time for a scheduled appointment, great by most Canadian standards. Then an Asian women directs me to a shower room where I remove all my closes Auschwitz style and put on a two piece frock that gives greater access to my naughty bits. Then I’m put into a second waiting room with other people, also wearing frocks who are having there inner rectums filmed on HD digital, which was awkward but then again, what isn’t in this sort of circumstance? I was by far the youngest in the room.
After watching another great episode of Hanna Montana (which I later understood was another form of early anesthetic), I was ushered into a doctor’s room where I was instructed to lie down and given an IV. Then the fun began.

It’s funny when the doctor gives you a drug, you always sit there thinking, “I wonder when this will kick in?” The next thing you know its over and you’re lying there with a sweet and silly smile on your face. I was astounded by the simplicity of it all. I turned on my side and he began with no hesitation, nor did I, as I was dumbfounded by narcotics and happy to oblige. There above my bed was a screen, and I could actually see the camera going through my intestine. At first I wanted to turn away but then I realized how cool it was! I was actually seeing the inside of my body! And honestly, I have to say it was better then James Cameron's Avatar. I feel it's a fair statement to make, as I was equally high for both screenings.

When the film ended, the Doctor asked me to turn around, which I goofily did, and he proceeded to put a ring in my mouth and feed pipe down my throat. I could see him feeding the piping into my stomach, which is scary yes, but all I could think of at the time was cotton candy. Why did it melt in your mouth? Next thing I know, I was being wheeled into a waiting room where all the other poor drugged up saps gurgled and lay around happy and free. It was like Woodstock II minus the music and mud…. You know, in retrospect it’s kind of ironic to think somewhere in Toronto there were a bunch of people doing the exact same thing, laying in some crack den all drugged up, only moments away from getting busted in by the cops while me and the 40-plus crowd got to do it on the government’s dime in some swank medical digs. Such is life when you’ve got an OHIP card. (score one for ol' Tommy Douglas)

At one point a person across from me let out a huge ripping fart, which amused me greatly in my infantile state. It was around this time that I noticed that I had a huge building pressure in my stomach and pelvis. Drunk off the anesthetic, I sloppily tried to get up, which startled a nurse. “You must rest,” she blurted out as my stone heavy head struggled to lift. “I think I need the washroom”, I drooled. You see, having drank enough laxative to permanently stain my mattress, I was certain this pressure could only be one thing and one thing only“Yes, just let out the gas,” she smiled, and closed the curtain around my bed. Let out the gas? Sure, I'm not embarrassed to say it. I had to fart. But what if it was more? Fear took me by the hand and played Stella-Ella-Ola. I didn't want to make a fool of myself here at Toronto Western! That's when another proud fart rang out across the room, a sudden wet implosion given with such vigor it paused my thoughts. It was then immediately followed by another one, this one long and draggy and off to my right. It was after that choice squeal I realized that this room had been built for only one purpose, to let people expunge gas. The pain building in my abdomen, I had no choice, I had to press out and pray like the others. So I did. And it was glorious. It was long and deep and it lasted at least thirty seconds, followed by a few staccato quick hits just for good measure. I was one of 99 red balloons deflating together , each squeeze bringing us more relief then the next. And for the next ten minutes, I was part of a beautiful symphony, a cacophony of human digestive systems fluttering in unison. It was as spiritual an experience as you will get in post-9/11 North America and I was happy to say I connected to strangers without words but with actions.


My point? It’s a cool procedure; you should definitely have one done. They say it becomes mandatory for men after 40 years old by why wait? It turns out it's as easy and breezy as Cover Girl. It would not be surprised if some Science Center in Europe had an exhibit where you could have a colonostopy done for kicks. Here’s the ball that makes your hair stand up annnnd there is the camera that let’s you see your colon. It’s too bad our North American lifestyle finds being drugged and penetrated so distasteful, it would be some educational good times.

Realizing the bizarre nature of this opinion is what made me understand that a blog was in order. It was time to inject some much needed honesty and bald-faced realism to this saucy bitch called the “blogsphere”. And I would be just the pimp to slap that bitch and get me my money.

So do please come again. In my next installment I talk about my famed theatre studio UNIT 102 and the true nature of money. In the meanwhile, I will question why I opened my blog with stories of defecation and uncomfortable medical procedures.

Excelsior!
Luis Fernandes