Why must my sister continually gross me out with the excruciating minutiae of the issues confronting her lady parts and biological functions?
The kitchen phone rang as I was about to eat lunch today. With a mouthwatering roast beef and horseradish cheddar sandwich inches from my mouth, I heard Louise’s voice on the answering machine. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have risked my appetite talking to her, but I couldn’t ignore the start of her message: “Hi guys. I went to the emergency room this morning, but I’m okay …”
Hotly-anticipated hoagie or not, I picked up the phone. I immediately offered a version of my standard plea: “Just this once, can you omit the gruesome details? I’m trying to eat lunch!”
Louise ignored my request, as usual. From her first sentence, I knew I’d regret the conversation: “Well, I’ve been taking some medicine that makes me constipated.”
As a precautionary measure, I moved the uneaten sandwich away from my lips and placed it back on the plate. If her tale proved as stomach-wrenching as I expected, I wanted the sight and smell of food nowhere near my vomit pipe. A wise move, I quickly discovered as Louise continued.
“It must’ve been five days since I last crapped, and when I woke up this morning my stomach was killing me. I had Sam run to the drugstore for an enema, but nothing came out of me but the fluid from the bottle. The pain got so bad, I tried sticking my finger, the end of the enema bottle, and a long Q-tip up my ass to loosen things up, but nothing worked. When I couldn’t stand the agony any longer, I told Sam to call an ambulance.”
By then I couldn’t even look at my sandwich, much less eat it. I moved the plate to the kitchen counter, together with the box of “Smores” cookies intended for my dessert. (The unshakable image of a corrupted Q-tip made me doubt I’d ever enjoy the marshmallow chocolate treats again.)
Meanwhile, Louise went on: “When I got to the emergency room, the Resident said he’d have to do an ‘extraction.’ You know what an ‘extraction’ is, Richard? It’s when the doctor shoves his hand up your bunghole! Not a finger or two; an entire hand! Let me tell you something; giving birth didn’t hurt as much as having a fist root around in my poop chute. And you wouldn’t believe what he finally pulled out of me: two hard-as-rock, golf-ball-sized pieces of crap!”
I felt woozy enough already, yet Louise hadn’t quite finished: “You know, as embarrassing as it seemed to have a guy staring up my asshole and pulling poop out with his fingers, the worst wasn’t over. With the blockage removed, I got this uncontrollable urge to shit. I had no chance to warn the doctor; before I could stop myself a bucketful shot out, in all directions! Totally gross!!! But guess what? I felt so much better!”
I’ve had my nose to the grindstone conducting legal research in the four hours since I belatedly hung up on Louise, and threw out my sandwich. Alas, despite my best efforts, I’ve yet to find a a restraining order issued solely on grounds of “TMI.”