on surfing waves of clinched sphincters

and the elephant spotter

OMG Did you know, dear reader what happens when you have a colonoscopy?

For many here, I’m sure you do.

But for me?

This was all new.

No, I didn’t get ‘tubed’.

I was the driver.

Apparently you are legally fucked up for quite some time after having your poop chute examined and are not considered sober enough to operate a motor vehicle.

So, I wasn’t the receiver of the mud scope. I was a driver and attendant for a friend whose provincially distributed test kit came back with some evidence of turd blood.

It’s quite an experience - again, not the colonoscopy, but showing up and hanging out in a colonoscopy waiting room.

To say that the atmosphere is ‘charged’ is a classic understatement. The air is thick with anticipation, fear and anxiety. Atmospheres like this really bring out the best in people.

First of all, most in these rooms are over tired and underfed having spent the prior evening attempting not to shit the bed. This odd combination of exhaustion and hangry lowers one’s ability to mask and pretend to fit in with civil society.

This is remarkable given that civil society is just about to ‘fit itself into’ your neither regions. Though no one is discussing the fact that they’re going to be fed roofies and have their Kobe hole probed, this unacknowledged reality must be on everyone’s mind.

Woaoowwwwwwww.

You know that sound? That long held wow?

No one in that waiting room wanted to hear the long held ‘wow’ lowing from the receptionists mouth. I felt the sphincters all around me beginning to tighten. It was as though every little arsehole in the place were asking What, what’s the screw up? Are they still going to see me? There’s no FUCKING way I went thought THAT last night FOR NOTHING.

A wave passed through the waiting room. Sphincters tightened. Sphincters released.

Then everbody there went back to staring soullessly at the floor, pretending that this was all normal and everything was ok. No, a stranger isn’t going to drug me then stick a tube up my arse. I’m just waiting to check my bags then make my way to Cuba!

Me?

I loved watching the people flinch. I wanted to watch the wave of contracting and expanding sphincters ripple around the room once again.

It was all I could do to not start singing a the top of my lungs: UNDERPANTS! DON’T WANT TO MESS WIT MY UNDERPANTS. PLEASE DON’T DANCE IN MY UNDERPANTS! UNDERPANTS! UNDERPANTS DANCE!

As it turns out, I didn’t have to. An elephant spotter entered the room And a man with a loud voice started shouting out the locations and nature of the elephants in the room.

And oh boy, that room was filled to the tits with them.

Is the doctor a lady? Tell me it’s a lady, or at least a Chinese man. Tell me he has little fingers. Just don’t let him be a steel worker or some gym rat with big meaty mitts.

As he spoke he kept making an asshole shape with his fist and popping his finger into it while saying BOOP!

Sphincters clinched very tightly as he, fueled by anxiety unleashed his discomfort on all of us.

For some, it was the reality that this man was making light of their fears and dreads.

For me?

I just didn’t want to burst out laughing too loudly and give him high fives. The person I was there with would not have appreciated it at all.

But fuck, I was giving them a drive. The least they could do was let me delight in joining this man in his hilarity.

Some people eh?

There I had found a kindred spirit.

Contrast this with my day prior in a crowded surf line up.

In general?

I hate surfers.

Sure, there are many individual surfers that I like very much.

But as a group or a ‘community’ they are as pleasant as a colonoscopy waiting room

An aside dear readers, if there’s a pod of dolphins, or a murder of crows, what would you call a group of surfers?

A bag of butt plugs?

A vat of douchenozzels?

A clot of blood bags?

A pout of surfers?

They’re salty.

A condom cleaning rack?

I dunno. That’s a start, but I’ll take any suggestions that y’all come up with…

But in a gash of surfers, I tend to like to behave like the elephant spotter.

Oh my god, I shrieked like a valley girl as I paddled into the line up, I just like, feel so connected with nature when I’m in the ocean. hashtag salty hair don’t care!

Then I erupted with the kind of derisive laughter that let EVERYONE know that I wasn’t really feeling the spirituality.

But in case they missed it? I continued.

Life is so hectic these days. I just need to come to the ocean. I gotta get away. It’s my ‘therapy’, my me time. You know? I disconnect from my phone and reconnect with something bigger… HASHTAG SELF CARE!

I could feel the sphincters tightening all around me.

Then?

Then a set came.

And the others?

They were out of position.

I caught the best of the waves and rode it all the way in to the beach.

The sphincters released.

As I paddled back to the peak, I could see people stiffening in anticipation of my arrival.

This time I needed to bring up an old behavioural favorite. Singing.

GIMMIE THE BEAT BOYS THAT FREES MY SOUL / I WANNA GET LOST IN YOUR ROCK AND ROLL AND DRIFT AWAY!

I belted out Dobie Gray, but only those lines. I don’t know any other lines of that song, nor do I want to learn. Singing that part over and over again is enough to make sphincters go so tight that turds turn from carbon to coal to diamonds while waiting for a set wave.

It was about then that the dirty looks started to fly my way. It was as though people were letting me know that I was breaking some unspoken behavioral rule. Almost as though they were saying look you weird old motherfucker, we’re here to look cool and chat up ladies. Stop being weird. You’re making us uncomfortable, you’re really disrupting our aura…

And as a mind reader?

I started shouting at the top of my lungs what I imagined they were saying.

OH MY GOD, THAT GUY IS SO WEIRD, I’M UNCOMFORTABLE, I NEED TO FOCUS. MY TECHNIQUE, I’M TRYING TO PROGRESS I NEED A LESS CHAOTIC ATMOSPHERE…

I used my best ‘hey dude / Keanu Reeves voice for this one but then followed up with a gutteral sound that wouldn’t have been outta place coming from one of Sauron’s orcs:

YOU’RE IN THE WRONG PLACE BITCH!

Again, they were outta place, missed the wave and I rode a set to the beach.

Eventually a critical mass of the well groomed and better masked sheeple showed up and my antics had less an impact.

Despite this, my tactics mostly worked. Those I knew and wanted to surf with put up with my ‘charms’.

And those who didn’t stayed the fuck away.

Some people will tell you that the ocean is their church, a place of peace and quiet reflection.

Others will say that a medical waiting room is a place of solemn, dignified patience. And these fools, I have only one response: UNDERPANTS! DON'T DANCE IN MY UNDERPANTS!

Love the people who love you.

And fuck the fucking fuckers.