Adventures in the CAT scanFollow

OMG my friend just sent this to me. This is so funny!


I was 13. I had already undergone a surgery to clean up the cesspool that had become my bowels, post-ruptured appendix.

After being in the hospital for about 3 weeks, I had returned home for what seemed like 10 minutes when I felt a pang in my abdomen. I made the mistake of letting it show in the presence of my father, who immediately insisted that I return to the one place I now despised - the hospital. Although I had come within a few hours of death just a few weeks earlier, I protested that he was being overly cautious, and that I would not return. I hadn't eaten real food in weeks, and I was staring at a box of KFC hot wings like Andy **** at a line of coke. I was destined to lose this argument, and it saved my life.

Now at this point, despite being a little white boy fighting a morphine addiction, I looked like an Ethiopian on crack. My pre-pubescent normal weight was around 86 pounds, and I was now about 70. Emaciated, atrophied, barely able to walk.

Upon arrival at the hospital around 10 p.m., I was put in an all-too familiar room to await the doctor's attention. The doctor decided he needed to run some tests. AFter the X-Ray and the ultrasound revealed nothing, it was time for the CAT scan. The doctor explained that in order for the CAT scan to work properly, I would have to drink some radioactive liquid called barium. Imagine cold Maalox with chalk dust stirred in, and a slight metallic taste, and you have barium. The memory still elicits a gag reflex.

I tried and tried to drink the barium, but I kept wanting to puke. They gave me a straw and told me I HAD to drink ALL of it. It was about a pint. I looked plaintively at my dad who only laughed and told me to stop being a baby. After about an hour, but what seemed like eternity, I managed to gag down the contents of the bottle. I was feeling rather relieved to be done with it, when that she-***** of a nurse brought in another pint of barium and cheerfully said, "One more!"

I started crying. I begged my dad to make them stop. I pleaded for them to let me go home. Instead, my dad looked at me, disappointed. He told me to drink it all, and he went home. The nurse told me my CAT scan was scheduled for 6 a.m. and that I had best finish it soon. I cried and sipped and gagged and argued with myself, until at about 1 in the morning I had finished it all. I passed out, exhausted.

5:00 a.m. - rude awakening. Large orderlies lift my frail sack of bones out of bed and into the wheelchair. I am wearing nothing but the open-backed, cheap-napkin feeling hospital gown. Everything feels cold, especially the wheelchair on my bare ***. I keep nodding off while I am wheeled to the CAT scan room. After the standard waiting for paperwork and doctors to all be present, I am admitted into the CAT scan room.

Now for those of you who are curious, CAT stands for computerized axial tomography. It's basically a metal tray that moves in and out of a donut hole in the wall - at least that's how my immature self saw it at the time.

The doctor gave me the low-down on the procedure and said it wouldn't hurt - just get on the tray and wait while it eeks its way in, and then back out of the donut.

Then the nurse broke the real news. Because I was dehydrated, and hadn't eaten anything in recent memory, I was empty, and the machine wouldn't be able to discern my guts from other guts. She said they needed to "fill me up".

So, intead of laying on the tray like a normal CAT scan patient, I was to get on my knees and put my forehead down, *** up in the air like a cat in heat advertising to the local Toms. I almost caterwauled.

That was only the tip of the sword of degradation. "Filling me up" meant that she was to anally violate with a plastic tube, so as to inject water and air into my colon, to fill it like an unholy water balloon.

Now, lying prone while mostly naked in a room full of strangers is humilaiting enough. But lying prone while mostly naked in a room full of strangers who want to stick a tube in your as so as to "fill you up" is just beyond the mental grasp of a 13 year old who has had an overall ****** month. What choice did I have? I just had to take it up the ***.

Imagine having to take an urgent #3 - that's #1 and #2 coming out of your butt - imagine the semi-orgasmic relief you feel when you have finally expelled the source of your dire discomfort. Well, for the first time in my life, I was feeling the exact reverse - being "filled up". The nurse even had the nerve to admonish me to hold it really tight. She said, "You will feel like you have to go to the bathroom REALLY bad, but you need to squeeze tight to help hold the tube in your ****."

Boy, she wasn't kidding. As soon as they had finished "filling me up", I felt like unleashing a torrid defecano a.k.a. poocano. I can just imagine the sterile white hospital room, with the sterile white nurses in their sterile white nurse's clothes suddenly spotted like a bunch of brown dalmations due to the vengeful wrath of the defecano I would unleash. I would be vindicated.

I didn't have the sack to let the poocano be. My only regret to this day....

Now, lying prone, naked *** up in the air, tube inserted, straining and gritting to hold the furious #3 inside, the nurse cheerfully explained to me that the machine would slowly start moving into the donut, and that I shouldn't be scared. Oh. Yeah. What could possibly scare me now.

KACHUNK....KACHUNK....KACHUNK....The machine started to move forward at a painstakingly tortuous centimeter at a time. I imagined the medical staff behind me, staring at my tubed-***, all restraining laughs and smiling at my unenviable disposition. Bastards. I hate them. I felt like a recently stuffed Thanksgiving day turkey being slowly fed into the fiery oven by a smiling demon. At least the Turkey gets its *** stitched shut....

After about 15 minutes I swear I was tripping. There is no way I could have lasted that long without fleeing to some hidden corner of my mind to hide and wait out the torture.

Then the machine stopped. "Thank you Jebus!" My silent rejoice was premature, for the nurse informed me that the tortuous machine has now started its 15 minute journey back out of the tube.
God kill me. I contemplated the possibility of forcing the water and air up through my bowels so I could retch it out on the machine in front me. That would have been a too perfect revenge. My altered mental statemade me imagine the implausible and it proved to be impossible.

15 minutes later, *** numb, brain numb, body numb, scared to move, for fear of the defecano scene illustrated earlier. Back to the beginning. And the end.

The nurse asks if I can stand. I say, "Lady, if I so much as move a muscle I am going to assplode all over you and your cronies back there." Or something to that effect. She instructs me to squeeze tightly, as if I had been squeezingly loosely for the previous half hour, while she removes the tube. Now it is nothing but sheer *** power containing the malevolent brew in my bowels. Tube removed, two orderlies lift me by arms and legs and carry me, in the exact same prone position, to an adjoined bathroom and set me on the toilet.

They quickly flee from the room and slam the door shut.

KAAAAAAABOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMM!!!! SPLAAAAARRRRRTTTTTTT!!! WHEEEEEEEE! I can see the face of God. I can hear the angels sing. I can hear my dad outside the door laughing his *** off! "Boy, you alright in there?"

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh!!!" Holy ****. Literally.

If you think R-o-l-a-i-d-s is how you spell relief, think again.

The very last line was funny...but was that other stuff needed? ~_~ Get to GOOD stuff, dood.