My ass hurts. Real bad. As I lie prostrate on my couch trying to type, I wanted to let you know that I have to phone in my column today.
My left ass cheek is drowning in a giant purple bruise and an incision that Colorado Daily columnist Jeanine Fritz likened to an upside-down cross. (I send her photos of my whoopie cakes on occasion to keep our friendship tight.) Instead of calling that inverted symbol one of the occult nature, I’ll call it the Petrine Cross (Cross of St. Peter), a symbol of humility because I’m super modest.
Back to this colorful owie.
I have chronic lower back pain due to cheap mattresses, falling on my tailbone, never bending at the knee, being a giant, beating my body like a piñata, not exercising, etc. When this protruding mass in my ass appeared, voila, I assumed if I ripped the sucker out, it would make me all shiny and new.
It was a harmless lipoma. This doughy lump of benign fat cells is very common and generally left alone to burrow under the skin. However, I was determined this particular mass was dry humping my sciatic nerve, playing baseball with my spine and bouncing on the piriformis muscle. After qualifying for health care financial aid, ‘Rip it out,’ I said.
The docs told me this operation may not improve my back pain. But I like to roll the dice when it comes to sharp objects penetrating my ass.
They said I could drive myself to and from and they wouldn’t knock me out. I assumed this meant I’ll sprint out of the hospital with a hot pink bandage just in time for happy hour. They injected my butt with lidocaine and kept talking about how deep the asslump was. Deeper than most, they said. Was I sure I wanted to proceed? It will be painful, and it could be fruitless.
STFU and RIP IT OUT.
Now would be a good time to take a pull of whiskey.
Doc and Sidekick cut a 1-inch incision on my left ass cheek (“Is your tattoo OK?” Fritz texted me. It is, it is. Two clicks north, the heart with “Christy” in it made the cut.) Doc inserted two gloved fingers into the incision and jabbed around. About 17 days later, she found it (“Damn, this one is deep“).
It was another 27 years later when she finished chopping it from its base, likening the thing to an octopus. Meanwhile I’m grinding my teeth, wet dreaming of Kentucky Deluxe, cutting my palm flesh with my fingernails, sweating like the GOP and coming dangerously close to fainting.
After stapling me from the inside, the nurse had to get a bigger specimen jar. I looked at it. It was gross, but I was more disturbed that I could still feel phantom fingers inside me. That’s what she said.
With nary a painkiller script in sight (wtf), I hobbled out. I can’t tell if my back feels any better because there’s something lurking behind the mark of the beast, thrashing flesh and dressing my ass in goth makeup. I’m trying to kill it with ibuprofin, but that’s like trying to get shitfaced in King Sooper’s “beer” aisle.
Tentacles crossed Husband can bend me over in time for our wedding anniversary. If not, at least something’s fingering my ass.
Thanks, Editor. I’ll be back next week.