I called my friend, Andy Sable, a gastroenterologist, to make an appointment for a colonoscopy.  A few days later, in his office, Andy showed me a color diagram of the colon, a lengthy organ that appears to go all over the place, at one point passing briefly through Minneapolis. 

Then Andy explained the colonoscopy procedure to me in a thorough, reassuring and patient manor.  I nodded thoughtfully, but I didn't really hear anything he said because my brain was shrieking, HE'S GOING TO STICK A TUBE 17,000 FEET UP YOUR BEHIND!

I left Andy's office with some written instructions,  and a prescription for a product called "MoviPrep" which comes in box large enough to hold a microwave oven. 

I will discuss Movi Prep in detail later, for now, suffice it to say that we must never allow it to fall in the hands of America's enemies.

I spent the next several days productively sitting around being nervous. I began my preparation.

In accordance with my instructions, I didn't eat any solid food that day; all I had was chicken broth,  which is basically water only with less flavor. 

Then, in the evening, I took the MoviPrep. You mix two packets of powder together in a one liter plastic jug, then you fill it with luke warm water. (For those unfamiliar with the metric system a liter is about 32 gallons.) 

Then you have to drink the whole jug. This takes about an hour, because MoviPrep tastes - and here I am being kind - like a mixture of goat spit and urinal cleanser, with just a hint of lemon.

The instructions for MoviPrep, clearly written by somebody with a great sense of humor, state that after you drink it, 'a loose watery bowel movement may result.' This is kind of like saying that after you jump off your roof you may experience contact with the ground. 

MoviPrep is a nuclear laxative. I don't want to be graphic, here, but have you ever seen the space shuttle launch?  

This is pretty much the MoviPrep experience, with you as the shuttle. 

There are times when you wish the commode had a seatbelt.  

You spent several hours pretty much confined to the bathroom, spurting violently. You eliminate everything. And then, when you figure you must be totally empty, you have to drink another liter of MoviPrep, at which point, as far as I can tell, your bowels travel into the future and start eliminating food that you have not even eaten yet.

After an action-packed evening, I finally got to sleep. The next morning my wife took me to the clinic. I was very nervous. Not only was I worried about the procedure,  but I have been experiencing occasional return bouts of MoviPrep spurtage. 

I was thinking, 'What if I spurt on Andy?" How do you apologized to a friend for something like that? 

Flowers would not be enough.

At the clinic I had to sign many forms acknowledging  that I understood and totally agreed with whatever the heck the forms said. 

Then they led me to a room full of other colonoscopy people, where I went inside a little curtained space and took off my clothes and put on one of those hospital garments designed by sadist perverts, the kind that when you put it on, makes you feel even more naked than when you are actually naked. 

Then a nurse named Edie put a little needle in a vein in my left hand. Ordinarily I would have fainted, but Edie was very good and I was already lying down.

Edie, also told me that some people put vodka in their MovePrep. 

At first I was ticked off that I hadn't thought of this, but then I pondered what would happen if you got yourself too tipsy to make it to the bathroom, so you were staggering around in full Fire Hose Mode. 

You would have no choice but to burn your house down.

When everything was ready, Edie wheeled me into the procedure room where Andy was waiting with the nurse and an anesthesiologist I did not see the 17,000 foot tube but I knew Andy had it hidden around there somewhere, I was nervous, seriously nervous at this point. Andy had me roll over on my left side, and the anesthesiologist begin hooking something up to the needle in my hand. 

There was music playing in the room, and the song was "Dancing Queen" by Abba, I remarked to Andy that, of all the songs that could be playing during this particular procedure, "Dancing Queen" has to be the least appropriate. 

"You want me to turn it up" said Andy,  from somewhere behind me.  "Ha ha," I said. And then it was time, the moment I have been dreading for more than a decade. 

If you are squeamish, prepare yourself, because I am going to tell you, in explicit detail, exactly what it was like. 

I have no idea.  Really.  I slept through it. One moment, ABBA was yelling "Dancing Queen, feel the beat of the tambourine," and the next moment, I was back in the other room, waking up in a very mellow mood. 

Andy was looking down at me and asking me how I felt. I felt excellent. I felt even more excellent when Andy told me that it was all over, and that my colon had passed with flying colors. 

I have never been prouder of an internal organ. 

The author is a Pulitzer Prize winning humorist columnist for the Miami Herald.

 

Ethel checked into a Motel on her 65th Birthday, she was lonely, a little depressed at her advancing age so decided to risk an adventure.

She thought, “I’ll call one of those men you see advertised in phone books for escorts and sensual massages.

She looked through the phone book, found a full-page ad for a guy calling himself Tender Tony, a very handsome man with assorted physical skills flexing in the photo.

He had all the right muscles in all the right places, thick wavy hair, long powerful legs, dazzling smile, six-pack abs and she felt quite certain she could bounce a dime off his well-oiled buns.

She figured, what the heck, nobody will ever know.

I’ll give him a call.

“Good evening, ma’am, how may I help you?”

Oh my, he sounded sooo sexy!

Afraid she would lose her nerve if she hesitated, so she rushed right in,

“I hear you give a great massage. I’d like you to come to my motel room and give me one. No, wait, I should be straight with you. I’m in town all alone and what I really want is s*x. I want it hot, and I want it now. Bring implements, toys, everything you’ve got in your bag of tricks. We’ll go at it all night … tie me up, cover me in chocolate syrup and whipped cream, anything and everything, I’m ready! Now how does that sound?”

He said, “That sounds absolutely fantastic, but you need to press 9 for an outside line.” 

 

Papa Bear and Mama Bear are getting a divorce

You know Goldilocks and the 3 bears? Well mama bear and papa bear are getting a divorce. In court they bring in baby bear. The judge puts baby bear on the stand and asks him who he’d like to live with?

“Well not papa bear he beats me,” says baby bear.

“So mama bear?” asks the Judge.

“Oh no she beats me even worse than papa bear,” says baby bear.

“So who would you like to live with?” the Judge asks curiously.

“My grandma bear in Chicago.” says baby bear.

“Your grandma bear doesn’t beat you?” asks the Judge?

“Oh no the Chicago Bears don’t beat anyone.”

 

Jane is ready to have a catch-up lunch with her colleagues. Her husband is away on a work trip, so she can sit back and enjoy herself. But when she arrives at the restaurant, she gets a lot more than she wanted to order. 

Honestly, all I wanted was to have my grilled calamari and garlic bread. And sit back, sipping wine while my colleagues and I catch up on our lives. But it turned out I got way more than I ordered for lunch. 

It started innocently enough. I was strolling into our regular lunch spot with my co-workers, a bunch of married individuals ready to complain about our spouses and the cases we were working on. I was blissfully unaware of the whirlwind waiting for me. 

We sat at the table reserved for us, and when I was seated, I looked around. Is that something that all lawyers do? Look to see if any of their clients or previous clients are around? 

Cheesy garlic bread on a plate. | Source: Pexels

Anyway, when I looked up, I saw him. My husband, Tom, who was supposed to be on a business trip — was only scheduled to return later that evening. But there he sat, with a cup of coffee and a plate of nachos in front of him. He was typing away on his phone with a mysterious smile. 

Who on earth was this man talking to, if not me? And what was up with that smile? The last time I saw that smile was when he surprised me with a weekend away for our anniversary about five years ago.

My mind, ever the overdramatic over-thinker, instantly became a detective. I sat there, listening to my colleagues order their drinks while envisioning catching Tom red-handed with another woman who was bound to stroll in to meet him. 

Man sitting at table using his phone. | Source: Pexels

I watched Tom for a while. He was oblivious the entire time. I could see that his focus was on that phone. When the waiter brought my wine, I sipped it while ignoring my colleagues' chatter. After a few more minutes, an unknown man walked into the restaurant and handed Tom an envelope. 

What in the secret rendezvous is this? I thought to myself. Is this man doing something illegal?

I got up then, moving to the other side of the table to get a better view of whatever Tom was taking out of the envelope. I picked the menu, trying to shield myself as best I could while still trying to see. 

It was photos of me. I couldn't see things perfectly, but my green coat and hair were unmistakable. I took a discreet picture of Tom and his companion, hoping to capture the evidence I might need later. 

Envelopes on table. | Source: Unsplash

Moving on, that was just the beginning of the story. Turns out that the unknown man was a private investigator who was part of Tom's elaborate plan in trying to catch me with a colleague to frame me as a cheater. 

Why?

Because we had a clause in our prenuptial contract stating that if one of us cheated in the marriage, it would immediately end in a divorce, and they would be left with absolutely nothing. Tom wanted to orchestrate this plan so that I would be caught and he would get everything.

The punchline? Tom was already cheating on me, and he wanted everything from the divorce to begin his new life with her.

I was beside myself with rage and betrayal. But I wanted to let him play out his little game. Tom filed for divorce a week or so after that unfortunate lunch. I was sure he felt triumphant, thinking he had all the evidence he needed to get the big payout. 

Legal contract with pen on table. | Source: Pexels

But he didn't know that the courtroom was about to become the stage for a showdown between us both. 

He presented his carefully crafted narrative, running his hands through his hair the entire time. It was an annoying habit of his, but he thought it made him charming. I sat quietly, waiting for his performance to be over.

Then, it was my time. 

I presented all my counter-evidence with confidence. The courtroom was my playground; I had no reason to be anything less than bold. 

Tom's plan had backfired spectacularly, and I knew Karma had taken over. 

I walked away from the courtroom, head held high, realizing I was alone and had gotten exactly what I wanted. But the best thing about it all was the fact that Tom's web of lies had unraveled on its own. 

Empty courtroom. | Source: Pexels

Yes, I was alone now. But I emerged from the other side stronger, wiser, and free from a toxic marriage that seemed to be built on the foundation of lies. 

And this was just a lunch date with work colleagues. And you know? I didn't even get my calamari and garlic bread.

If you were in my situation, what would you have done? 

Calamari with salad and wine. | Source: Pexels

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