The O-Ring of Fire (5)...

... Okay, so fast-forward a coupla weeks and I finally decide it’s time to air my ass woes out to (at) my doctor. Poor guy. So I head over there under the guise of getting a prescription refilled and then at the last minute, after some good-natured chit-chat, I spring on him, “Oh… and I’ve been having some itching going on in the rear-end area [circular hand gesture] that I thought I should maybe mention.” His smile fades and he gets that look that you get when you realize you’ve just stepped in some dog shit and you’re going to have to spend the next 20 minutes sitting on the front porch, picking it out of your waffle soles with a stick.

So he reluctantly gloves up, lubes his finger and tells me to roll on my side and grab my ankles. At least that’s what I think he said. It all happened so fast. Luckily, he’s a wee man and, thankfully, sports a wee forefinger, to boot. He pokes his mini-digit in there, twists it around, says everything “feels normal” and then, like Little Jack Horner, withdraws said digit… sans plum, thank god. Just as I was about to roll back over and retrieve my pants (and my dignity), he inserts something that felt like… well, I’m pretty sure he rammed an inverted orange traffic cone up my fanny. Apparently, he needed to “open the aperture” a bit to take a little lookie-loo. Holy fuckstain, the dude could’ve walked in there at that point! It’s a good thing I didn’t blow one while that thing was in there ‘cuz the whole town would’ve high-tailed it to their basements, thinking the air raid sirens were going off. Eventually he withdrew the cone and my poor sphincter slammed shut like snapping turtle’s jaws on an unsuspecting wader’s pinkie toe. My poor, poor sphincter.

Next up: The Verdict...