This is from newshound Dave Barry's colonoscopy journal:

I called my friend Andy Sable, a gastroenterologist, to make an appointment for a colonoscopy. A few days later, in his office, Andy showed me a colour diagram of the colon, a lengthy organ that appears to go all over the place, at one point passing briefly through Minneapolis. Then Andy explained the colonoscopy procedure to me in a thorough, reassuring and patient manner. I nodded thoughtfully, but I didn't really hear anything he said, because my brain was shrieking, quote, 'HE'S GOING TO STICK A TUBE 17,000 FEET UP YOUR BEHIND!'

I left Andy's office with some written instructions, and a prescription for a product called 'Picolax,' which comes in a box large enough to hold a microwave oven. I will discuss Picolax in detail later; for now suffice it to say that we must never allow it to fall into the hands of America's enemies.

I spent the next several days productively sitting around being nervous. Then, on the day before my colonoscopy, I began my preparation. In accordance with my instructions, I didn't eat any solid food that day; all I had was chicken broth, which is basically water, only with less flavour. Then, in the evening, I took the Picolax. You mix two packets of powder together in a one-litre plastic jug, then you fill it with lukewarm water. (For those unfamiliar with the metric system, a litre is about 32 gallons.) Then you have to drink the whole jug. This takes about an hour, because Picolax tastes - and here I am being kind - like a mixture of goat spit and urinal cleanser, with just a hint of lemon.

The instructions for Picolax, clearly written by somebody with a great sense of humour, state that after you drink it, 'a loose, watery bowel movement may result.' This is kind of like saying that after you jump off your roof, you may experience contact with the ground.

Picolax is a nuclear laxative. I don't want to be too graphic, here, but: Have you ever seen a space-shuttle launch? This is pretty much the Picolax experience, with you as the shuttle. There are times when you wish the commode had a seat belt. You spend several hours pretty much confined to the bathroom, spurting violently. You eliminate everything. And then, when you figure you must be totally empty, you have to drink another litre of Picolax, at which point, as far as I can tell, your bowels travel into the future and start eliminating food that you have not even eaten yet.

After an action-packed evening, I finally got to sleep. The next morning my wife drove me to the clinic. I was very nervous. Not only was I worried about the procedure, but I had been experiencing occasional return bouts of Picolax spurtage. I was thinking, 'What if I spurt on Andy?' How do you apologize to a friend for something like that? Flowers would not be enough.

At the clinic I had to sign many forms acknowledging that I understood and totally agreed with whatever the heck the forms said. Then they led me to a room full of other colonoscopy people, where I went inside a little curtained space and took off my clothes and put on one of those hospital garments designed by sadist perverts, the kind that, when you put it on, makes you feel even more naked than when you are actually naked.

Then a nurse named Eddie put a little needle in a vein in my left hand. Ordinarily I would have fainted, but Eddie was very good, and I was already lying down. Eddie also told me that some people put vodka in their Picolax. At first I was ticked off that I hadn't thought of this is, but then I pondered what would happen if you got yourself too tipsy to make it to the bathroom, so you were staggering around in full Fire Hose Mode. You would have no choice but to burn your house.

When everything was ready, Eddie wheeled me into the procedure room, where Andy was waiting with a nurse and an anesthesiologist. I did not see the 17,000-foot tube, but I knew Andy had it hidden around there somewhere. I was seriously nervous at this point. Andy had me roll over on my left side, and the anesthesiologist began hooking something up to the needle in my hand. There was music playing in the room, and I realized that the song was 'Dancing Queen' by ABBA. I remarked to Andy that, of all the songs that could be playing during this particular procedure, 'Dancing Queen' had to be the least appropriate.

'You want me to turn it up?' said Andy, from somewhere behind me. 'Ha ha,' I said. And then it was time, the moment I had been dreading for more than a decade. If you are squeamish, prepare yourself, because I am going to tell you, in explicit detail, exactly what it was like.

I have no idea. Really. I slept through it. One moment, ABBA was yelling 'Dancing Queen, feel the beat of the tambourine,' and the next moment, I was back in the other room, waking up in a very mellow mood. Andy was looking down at me and asking me how I felt. I felt excellent. I felt even more excellent when Andy told me that It was all over, and that my colon had passed with flying colours. I have never been prouder of an internal organ.

ABOUT THE WRITER


Dave Barry is a Pulitzer Prize-winning humour columnist for the Miami Herald.

Dear Khun C.

Slept well last night but, no doubt, will have sufficient levels of anxiety to keep me from closing an eye tonight or tomorrow night and maybe for the foreseeable future as a result of the suggestion, nay threat, mentioned in your note I have just received.

Please be informed well in advance, and this may extend to several re-incarnated lives ahead (which may involve soi dogs, rats, cockroaches and other equally lowly creations), that there is NO way; no POSSIBLE way, that you, the whole of the Soviet and North Korean army and the armed forces of several other major nuclear powers will persuade me to even think of considering accompanying you, or any other single, married or otherwise occupied or deluded female on an excursion such as the unspeakable undertaking you dared to mention before…

This is extremely unfair, un-whatever comes to mind, that you would dare mention, nay, even thought of committing in writing a proposition like that ahead of a weekend!

This will require extreme measures, large quantities of medicinal ale and possibly any other form of sedation I may be able to unearth in the course of the next few days just to prevent me from hyperventilating, having severe chest pains, palpitations and delirious nightmares; indeed my very sanity may be a stake...

The unspeakable thing: Now, it seems to me, that for a woman of the world such as your most delicate self, you have severely restricted insight into the one-dimensional male psyche.

Shopping with a female, in any shape or form, for the male is a bore and an unbearable burden of such magnitude that it defies any measure.

This, of course, excludes shopping for life's essentials such as a pocket knife, tools or fishing gear.

Accompanying a female person, one is legally attached to and therefore morally obliged to escort, shopping excursions have probably resulted in more divorces, suicides and murders than all mia nois in the world put together could account for in many lifetimes...

Some shopping malls, I hear, no doubt designed by knowledgeable and sympathetic males, have pubs where these poor enslaved husbands, forced under threat of loss of life and limb and other privileges to accompany their wives, can get suitably sedated while they wait, and wait, and wait...

Women like these, who insist on enforcing every last detail of that contract we enter into on that fateful day we men say farewell to our freedom, I am firmly convinced, are perfectly capable of eating their children as well....

Men have no function whatsoever watching women trying on anything. Little black items may raise a flicker of interest but, essentially, we are all chivalrous knights at heart and would consider that a woman putting something on does not seem to be in distress or need of assistance. If, on the other hand, said woman, seems to have difficulty freeing herself from the confines of the same little black item, we will gladly and gallantly step in and lend a hand; even both hands perhaps even sacrifice aforesaid life and limb, if the situation so demands..

So, dear Khun C, the credit card is on the table by the door, I am unfortunately unable to accompany you as I have urgent business to attend to in Soi 33.

Let me know when you're done…

Daylight gives way reluctantly to neon, the midnight sun of this chaotic city; she is a Thai girl, a woman of the night that threatens to drown you in her noisy embrace of smells and sounds and lust.

I drain the last of my beer, warm now from neglect in the humid heat. I like to end my day here. Sitting in an outside bar, watching as the working girls turn up for the long nightshift. Watch them do what Thai girls do best. Preen themselves, gossip, meet friends from the same Isaan villages in the north east; sharing food from the same vendors selling delicacies from their region every night. Organised chaos, sanuk prevails. Laughter and teasing. Glistening black tresses, smooth skin of delicate sun hued bronze. Lithe and graceful sirens, maidens of the night.

I head for home on Asoke, walking down the gauntlet of garish glare and grasping hands, inviting arms. I brush against the nylon bristle and rough hide of a young elephant sharing the street; my heart breaks for the tragedy of the little beast's life.

I turn the corner and let the broken pavement take me home under the pale street lamps. I know the way well; every open sewer and every food stall. The flower seller on the corner in front of 7/11. Her wares sold. Solitary roses in a yellow bucket; discarded. Not beautiful enough... She empties water from her buckets on the pavement, washing away the signs of her day's labour. Fragrance of freshly cut stems, bruised green leaves, roses and lilies hangs in the air; subtle in the heady traffic fumes. The familiar chime of the 7/11 door bell sounds muffled as I pass the next food cart. The young girl prepares an omelet on her sizzling wok. Hair pasted on her forehead from the long days toil in the relentless heat. In the sweat of thy countenance…

This morning she had ten trays of two dozen eggs on her cart; now only a few brown orbs left on her counter by the wok. Her little sister waits tables. Last hungry guests eagerly await her fare. Smell of aromatic spices wafts between the sidewalk tables…

The last stall before my building is the old man selling moo yang. He has been outside on this same spot for years before I moved here. We exchange greetings. I buy his last little mound of succulent, spicy pork. He wais and hands me my purchase and change from twenty baht. He turns and packs away his utensils. Heading home; he never leaves till the last portion is sold...

I fetch another beer from the fridge and head for my balcony. The sounds of the city muted from the 17^th floor; I face the quiet side, away from the perpetual cacophony of Asoke road. Looking over the sleepy grounds of the university. City lights disappear in the haze to the east.

I let the day wash over me again. Every smell every sound, every nuance of life in this great city. The din of traffic and the gentle "ka" at the end of each softly spoken sentence...

I relish this rare moment of solitude; it is my quiet time.

I sometimes sit here till the crimson haze heralds dawn and the kul kul bird cries out below to greet the new day...

I did not choose Thailand, she chose me. I did not choose Bangkok, yet she has become my Hotel California.

In the hectic chaos of this wild Thai woman of the night, I find my own life defined.

I have checked in, but I can never leave.