| 200motels POLITICS |
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| 200motels BEIJING OLYMPICS |
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| 200motels POLITICS |
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NO FLY ZONE - or: The Voyage of Butt Discovery |
| 200motels Medicine |
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| My butt is a No-Fly Zone, meaning that it’s so nasty back there that even the flies don’t come near it. It’s not because I don’t wash it. Every Saturday night I go to the Industrial Car Wash on Eleventh Avenue and 46th Street and pay six bucks to go through the wash cycle. I stand on a dolly, which they hook up to the chain drive, and it pulls me through the big brushes, while a team of Albanian guys in rubber suits hose me down and scrub me with steel bristle brooms. Then a guy vacuums my crotch and my butt to suck out all the lint and encrusted material. Sometimes I even pay an extra fin for a wax job, so that when I emerge, my butt is a shining example of American Ingenuity, gleaming like a new Pontiac Grand Prix in the dealer’s showroom. |
| As they say in the computer business: GIGO, Garbage In Garbage Out, and I have got the same problem. After a lifetime of ingesting nasty intake like macaroni and cheese, calzone, egg rolls, stinking garlic bagels, O’ Henry candy bars, triple Whoppers, Philly Cheese Steaks, creamed corn, refried beans, 50 cent Papaya hot dogs, enchiladas with Tabasco sauce, pork rinds, Cheese Doodles and every other kind of wretched pollution, what tends to emerge from my butt resembles a kind of sulfurous, burning lava that disintegrates everything in its path and emits a poisonous gas that would be the envy of deranged, homicidal mass terrorists, if only they could conceive a delivery system that would enable them to use it in their never-ending quest to achieve world domination without themselves first falling victim to it. |
| Naturally, like a comedian who causes trouble and anxiety for everybody around him but is himself untouched by the fallout of his own incontinent behavior; or like Typhoid Mary, who left a trail of death and suffering but never fell ill herself, the monstrous vile substances that emanate from my backside never bother me. For me personally, it’s nice, like taking a stroll in the botanical gardens. In fact, it has beneficial advantages, like getting a seat on the subway. Sometimes, when I am bothered by a gay guy in a bar, I just bend over and give him a little blast of whatever happens to be cooking up down there, and he quickly retreats to the other end of the room. Now, that is something to truly be proud of, because gay guys really love toilet odors, otherwise most of their social contacts wouldn’t take place in public bathrooms. You never hear about gay guys hanging out in perfume factories. So, when my butt is even a turn-off for gay guys, you know that I have achieved an accomplishment of historical significance! |
| I have received offers from al-Qaeda, the Nazis, Chinese intelligence, Hugo Chavez and the Iranian government seeking to pay me millions for the formula for what comes out of my backside, but it’s impossible to duplicate. What do these idiots think, I took notes? Oh no! As A-Rod will tell you, when you achieve a grand slam homer, it’s more of an art than a science. All I can advise these terrorists is: if you want to invent a truly noxious substance with the potential to kill thousands, stick a cork up your butt, go up to La Casa del Mofongo on St. Nicholas Avenue and eat as much mofongo con queso with hot sauce as you can until the gas pressure in your intestines builds up to such a red alert level that the cork explodes out of your rectum like an artillery shell and kills somebody on the New Jersey side of the George Washington Bridge from a concussion. Only then will you achieve true enlightenment. |
| The only women I can get are French women. French people have a high tolerance for stinking backsides because of a lifetime devotion to smelly cheeses and rancid, stinking pots of week-old fish soup. French is the only language for which there is no word for soap. When I go to France the president pins a medal on my butt. |
| Still, it’s not enough. As any car buyer knows, a gleaming exterior can belie all the soot and crass that has been allowed to build up within the vehicle’s internal mechanism, and what blows out the exhaust pipe can be less than heavenly. |
FANTASTIC VOYAGE into your butt!
| Which brings me to the point of this little narrative. I recently went to my doctor, who wore a respirator for her examination of me. Part of the process was a rectal examination, where she had to push her finger up my butt to check my prostate. She said, “I hope this doesn’t embarrass you”. I answered, “Embarrass me? Hell, no! When I go down to Mexico I have to pay fifty bucks for this”. |
| Save on food! Grow mushrooms on your butt! |
| She told me that my prostate seemed OK but that she was giving me a referral to a proctologist because it was time for me to get a colonoscopy. Now, this was always one of my dreams - to be on a reality show. Because what is a colonoscopy, where they send a Roto Rooter up your butt with a camera attached to it, except a real reality show? Not only would it be flattering for me (“I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille”), but all my adoring fans would get to see me in the most intimate of settings, a “Fantastic Voyage” right up my butt and through my intestines. Who knows what special guest stars might show up for an appearance? The Giant Hemorrhoid, enraged at being disturbed in his lair, might be motivated to defend his turf by attacking the camera like the giant squid in “20,000 Leagues Under the Sea”. I could already see the theater marquee – “Journey to the Center of My Butt”. |
| The proctologist’s office sent me a packet of literature relating to my impending visit, but I was so busy consulting with my wardrobe director and my hair stylist that I neglected to read it until one hour before my scheduled visit at the doctor’s office. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that it contained two prescriptions for medications that I was supposed to have taken the night before – one for some glop that I was supposed to drink and the other for a suppository that I was supposed to insert into my butt – as if there wasn’t enough up there already! Well, no point fretting over the past. I would have to go forward and fake it. Maybe the doctor wouldn’t notice. |
| The butt doctor was a Japanese guy, Dr. Hiroshima Suzuki. When, at the pre-examination interview, he asked me whether I had taken the medication, I lied, “Sure!” “Good”, he exclaimed, rubbing his hands in anticipation. They laid me down on an examination table and anaesthetized me. I was out like a light. I dreamed of being called up to the stage and awarded an Emmy by Lady Gaga for Most Beautiful Butt as Kanye West protested that the prize should have gone to Rihanna. |
| Soon I was awakened and told that the procedure was over. I was instructed to put my clothes on and wait in the waiting room. When Dr. Suzuki called me back into his office, his face was a mask of rage, like an old World War II movie. “You didn’t take the medication”, he screamed. He showed me some color photos, taken inside my butt. The photos were beautiful and the lighting was perfect. Who knew that the camera was even equipped with a flash? A couple of them showed little pimples, pink and shiny. “Those are polyps, which I removed”, he told me. “I don’t think they are malignant because they look very healthy. I will send them to the laboratory for analysis, just to be sure”. |
| Then he showed me some beautiful brown and green photos. “This is the stool that remained in your intestines, that would have been removed if you had followed instructions and taken the medication”. The doctor was really pissed off. Imagine his disappointment. He was anticipating a date with a nice, clean intestine, and instead he was confronted with a filthy, disgusting butt polluted with all manner of nauseating shit. He even had the photos to prove it. |
| Nevertheless, the photos were beautiful and, as I said, dramatically lighted. More than anything else, they resembled a far-flung galaxy depicted on slides taken by the Hubble Space Telescope. I was tempted to ask him for a signed copy, but I kept silent because he was so enraged that I feared he would pull out a samurai sword and decapitate me like the death camp commander in “Death March to Bataan”. |
| Visibly controlling his rage, he exclaimed, “I wash my hands of you. Now you have to go to the Medical Imaging Laboratory, where they will subject you to a more thorough Barium Enema examination." I didn’t like the sound of that. Barium? Wasn’t that something radioactive? Oh, now I was in it! Oh God, why didn’t I drink the stupid stuff and shoot the suppository up my butt like I was supposed to? I was really afraid. Once you are in the clutches of these doctors, anything could happen, and if you expired they would just put you out with the medical waste and you would be discovered washed up on a New Jersey beach with the used AIDS syringes and bloody bandages. |
| This time, when the information packet arrived in the mail, I read all of it immediately. It instructed me to buy a preparatory enema kit and a bottle of laxative. The night before the appointment I was to drink the whole bottle of laxative and insert the bottles of fluid in my butt and squeeze all the stuff in there. There were three bottles of enema. That meant there was going to be about a quart of stuff going up my butt, but after my unpleasant interview with Dr. Hiroshima Suzuki, I wasn’t taking any more chances. The night before the Barium Enema, I drank all the laxative, which wasn’t exactly Veuve Cliquot champagne, let me tell you! Then I went into the bathroom, bent over and jammed the first bottle up my butt. Now, you would think, what could be easier than jamming something up your ass and squeezing it? Well, unless you have got a rear view mirror, it’s surprisingly difficult to find your anus. Most people enlist the aid of a close friend, I suppose, but I was having none of that. If, as the old saying goes, the heart is a lonely hunter, then the arse is a moving target. Anyway, if I didn’t at least have the manual dexterity to find my own butt and shove some junk up it without public assistance, how talented could I really be? |
| At last I found my butthole and jammed the nozzle of the bottle up it. Then I had to squeeze the stuff in, which required more strength than you might imagine, seeing as how I was bent over double. The whole bathroom got stunk up from my butt. Finally, squeezing as hard as I could, I realized that I needed to withdraw the thing from my butt, unscrew the nozzle, let some air in, replace the nozzle, bend over again, reinsert the thing in my ass and start squeezing again. I said to myself, “No way am I going to continue with this”, but then I remembered Dr. Suzuki turning purple with rage, so I did it. Finally, I managed to squeeze all the stuff into my butt, but no sooner than I had gotten it all in then I felt the irresistible urge to pop it all out again, which I sat on the pot and it all popped out. What can I tell you – I am not anal retentive by any stretch of the imagination. |
| Beautiful New Jersey Shore |
| So I had to repeat this process two more times, during which the laxative kicked in, which meant a whole night of stinking misery, let me tell you! And the freakin examination had not yet even begun. Next day, I showed up at the Imaging Clinic. They lay me on a table face down and inserted a tube up my butt, which they pumped full of stuff and then, just for good measure, they inserted a balloon and blew it up to keep the guck from shooting out. There’s no adequate narrative to describe the sensation of five pounds of radioactive white paste being shoved your butt, and then a balloon. It’s like if they shoved a basketball up your butt, not too charming. Then this lady doctor told me, turn on your left side, turn on your right side, hold still, while they shot x-rays. “I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille!” |
| This torture went on for quite a long time. They couldn’t get enough shots. It was kind of like being a fashion model for French Vogue, except instead of cool shoes and suits, the photos were of my butt blown up with Elmer’s Glue and dammed up by a balloon. Finally, they pulled the plug on my butt and told me to go in the bathroom to expel all the paste, some of which had dribbled out of my backside and down my leg, where it had hardened to a white crust. Finally, they let me get dressed and get out of there. I had to go directly from the clinic to my job on Wall Street. My butt was still filled with air and it kept escaping all day long. Also, there was still plenty of barium coming out, and when I went to the toilet on my job, I found that the stuff had seeped through my underpants and caked the inside of my French designer jeans. Fortunately, the pants are made of very thick fabric, so it wasn’t visible form the outside. Ha-ha, can you imagine that I would still be working at a Wall Street insurance company if that gook had been visible from the outside? Next time I'll be ready. My plan is to shove a Zhou Zhou mechanical hamster up my butt and let it run around my intestines, soaking up any excess shit on its little fur coat. That should get my butt all cleaned up for the doctor's inspection. My girlfriend, Magpie, is amazed that I would have the nerve to post this account on the internet. How could I do otherwise? This is all totally original material. You think I’m going to pass on the chance? Not bloody likely! |
| Coney Island Memorial Enema |
