Carey once told us a story from when she was working in a nursing home. Actually, she told us stories more than once, but only one of the stories scarred me irreparably for life. It was about an old person who, while trying to poop, pushed so hard that he squeezed out his rectum.
“What’d you do?” Trey asked, because Trey’s curiosity obviously outweighs his good sense.
“I just took a sanitary sponge and pushed it back up inside there.”
Trey nodded while I choked back my own vomit. As much as I like Carey, I’ll always hate her a little bit for telling me that story, just as you’ll always hate me a little for telling you.
I think about that story a lot. I never want to shit out my own asshole. I don’t. The thought of living to that age makes me want to go out and buy two cases of whiskey and ten cartons of unfiltered Lucky Strikes, and imbibe all of it while I’m racing down a twisty mountain road.
I’ve been trying for the past few days to get something written that’s worth posting. But every time I write, I have to force it, and it makes me think of that story.
Because I’m pushing so hard that what comes out is worse than shit.