A Fine Product

Okay:

So, when I was a teenager my mother sent me away to reform school. My regular readers already know about this. All 12 of you. But for the newcomers, I suppose some exposition is in order.

So, I was a bit of a bad ass and ended up getting shipped off to Front Royal, Virginia the summer of my ninth grade year.

Exposition over.

Away from home for the first time, I discovered I had a rather peculiar neurosis concerning toilets. That is, I cannot take a shit just anywhere. If something ain't right, I just cannot do it. Push come to shove I can make some compromises, but I absolutely cannot, will not, shit with someone else in the room. No fucking way.

But seeing as how this was a reform school, there were no luxuries like private bathrooms. The dormitory was almost one hundred years old (a fact that they bragged about for some reason) and the cement floors were glossy red and ice cold. The paint was peeling all over, exposing the even uglier institution gray from the previous paint job. There were three toilets, separated by iron stall partitions, painted glossy green, and rusting at the bottom from all the splattered piss.

Now I consider myself to be a down-to-earth brother. Not as bourgeois as people might think. But there was no way in hell I was ever going to take a shit in that bathroom. No fucking way.

So I didn't.

For six weeks.

I know.

You don't believe me.

And I don't care.

It's the truth.

Six fucking weeks.

And you know what? I rarely thought about it. I think my mind had basically told my body that there was no way we were going to be discarding any solid waste any time soon, so things adjusted themselves accordingly. I wasn't in any pain or discomfort. It helped that the food was awful.

Then I made my first visit home, and all I could think of was having a good, hot meal from my mamma's kitchen. And she obliged.

Well.

Before I went to bed that night, I made a rather large deposit in our very clean, very private bathroom.

I hadn't realized how backed up I was. It's difficult to describe. It wasn't like diarrhea. It was the normal consistency. But there was oh so much of it. So, so, so much.

And now for the bad part.

While cleaning myself up, I noticed that I was experiencing some sharp pains in my you-know-where. So, curious, I checked the paper to see what was going on.

I almost fainted.

Certain colors you expect. And other colors might be considered unusual, but not worthy of alarm. There is one color, however, that you never want to see whilst wiping yourself.

But there it was. Bright as day.

For days I dealt with the uncomfortable burn. I could barely sit. It was almost a week before I made the shocking discovery.

I had a fucking hemorrhoid.

Being more than a little embarrassed and not knowing where to turn, I called the only person I knew who I felt comfortable telling.

My father.

"How was reform school, son?"

"It sucked."

"Well. What did you expect?"

"I think I got a problem, dad."

"What's up, son?"

"I got a hemorrhoid."

"A hemorrhoid?" [long pause] "You wasn't playing around with the boys, was you?"

"No dad."

"Don't get defensive. It's a legitimate question. Well, you're gonna wanna get you some Preparation H and try to avoid moving around too much."

So I went to Peoples and found the stuff. There are few moments in my life where I can recall being more embarrassed. The lady cashier, mercifully, ran the yellow box over the scanner without looking at me. But I knew what she was thinking.

Fag.



Thanks for reading.


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Confession: Preparation H was an absolute God-send. There is not one over-the-counter product on the market today that is better at doing exactly what it says it's going to do. Of course, I kept the tube. Still have it today. In case it happens again, I won't have to go through the embarrassment of buying another one.