Let's just say that a colonoscopy is not near as fun as it sounds. What's that you say? It doesn't sound like fun? Well it's even less fun than you think it is. Let's backtrack a moment.

Roughly three years ago, my mom was diagnosed with diverticulitis. Subsequent visits to the doctor revealed some cancer in the colon and on her liver. She's undergone as couple of surgeries and a couple of rounds of chemo, and is currently still fighting the bully that is cancer. Needless to say, with that in the family history, many if not all of the Boucher kids have opted to have the chutes scoped to verify the healthiness of each one's respective Hershey highway. As of now, all tested are clean like the proverbial whistle.

Getting the back to the scoping: the scoping itself is actually not bad. I actually slept through the whole thing. Good drugs will do that. Actually, the most heinous part would be the prep the evening before drilling commences. You start with the prescribed dosage of saline laxatives. They try to make it as tasty as possible and suggest adding it to a lemon-lime soda. It still pretty much ends up tasting like someone whispered the word "Sprite" over a salt lick. There is no easy way to choke this down, and, if I remember correctly, I had to take it three times or so over the course of the evening. I would recommend slamming it in much the same way one would slam down the crappy beer one buys in high school. Remember those days? You bought for buzz per dollar, not taste.

When the colon cleaning cocktail kicks in, I strongly recommend being within eight feet of a bathroom. I'm not saying this was the best laxative I ever used, but we were considering making a sign that said "Old Faithful", having me kneel naked in the back yard, and charging admission, as I went off every ten minutes or so just like clockwork.

Even the softest, most quilted toilet tissue any angel ever dreamed up feels like fifty grit sandpaper after your thirtieth eruption. By the end of the siege, I would not have been surprised to see my old baseball cleats coming out of my booty. Finally clean, it was off to bed for a well deserved five hours or so of sleep before getting up to get ready for the appointment. Need a little extra time to spruce up the vertical smile for doc. Don't want him to think I'm a pig. You know how it is.

At the endoscopy clinic, it's time to disrobe and put on the charming smock with the easy access backside. I had previously joked with Judy about the funnies I was going to lay on the doctor and his helpers as I was getting scoped. Things like, "Oh yeah! A little to the left. There it is! Bingo! Bingo! Bingo!" Or the ever popular, "That's the sugar poppa likes!" Even, "You could at least buy me dinner first." And lastly, my personal favorite from "Fletch", "Whew, you ever do time, Doc?"

Did I mention doc's helpers are women? Also, did I mention the drugs were outstanding and may, or may not, have put me out. In any case, I don't remember much. The last thing I remember is seeing my junk laden trunk filling the doctor's monitor, and possibly hearing one of the women say, "Oh my God, Becky! Did you see that guy's butt? He looks like some rap star's girlfriend." It is quite possible I said all the things I was planning to and more, but sadly, we will never know. I'd like to think that I did. I'd hoped to make it as uncomfortable for the doctor as it was for me. For your viewing pleasure, an artist's rendering of my healthy backside has been included with this post, although certain hair and blemishes were omitted to protect the innocent.

Next, it's off to the recovery room. This was nice. They put me in a big comfy recliner and covered me with blankets. I don't know how I got there. All I remember is waking up. And, apparently, I woke up several times according to Judy's account. I believe it was about four or five times. Each time I would see Judy and say, "Heeeeyyyy baaabyy. Where'd you go?" There may have been other drug-induced small talk, but these were the portions that stood out.

One of the things they like you to do before you leave is to break wind, or as we say in my neck of the woods, blow poop. Now normally, I am all for a healthy stank cloud, but, to my surprise, I was reticent at that particular moment. I informed the nurse that I felt that if I were to attempt launch, I might soil myself and my big comfy chair. She told me that it was okay and it could be cleaned up. "You don't understand. I haven't sat in my own poo for almost thirty-five years, and I am not planning to today!" Well, there was that time during Spring Break in '86, but the less said about that the better. "You really need to do that before I let you go."

"Well I'm not going to, so I guess you're stuck with me all day. Did I mention I know at least ten "Journey" songs by heart, and I'm not afraid to use them?"

So, then we left the clinic, and it was on to the rest of our day. What's next? A movie? Lunch? What do you want to eat? Anything but rump roast.