The tale starts innocent enough. The first final exam of the semester was today (Monday) at 8:30am for Distributed Information Systems. My alarm went off at 7:00AM, it was snoozed for 20 minutes, I ascended, showered and ate a bowl of Special K with Red Berries. Delicious and somewhat healthy cereal, but the top of the box has too many berries while the bottom contains much too little. I digress.

At 8:05AM I jump on a city bus and after sitting down I immediately heard my stomach growl. Ruh, roh. A shat would be had. Ten minutes, I can handle that, right? I’m really not one to release gas in public so all bodily functions were disabled for the time-being. Arrival at university left me speed walking to the nearest bathroom. I walk in to find the stall walls for one of the toilets on the floor in the corner as I’m guessing feces makes some violent to the point of destroying the privacy they enjoy on the john. I walk into the handicap stall, close the door, undo my belt- no toilet paper dispenser. SHIT! I bolt to the last stall in the other corner. The next thirty minutes were spent sitting with severe stomach cramps reading the silly ink scribblings on the wall. “guelphcock69@hotmail.com” “The joke isn’t here, it’s in your hands”. (I have before used this bathroom and seen porn sitting the floor, I’ll never quite grasp the concept of a public wank). Then rubicon hits, there’s no turning back baby, the floodgates are open; you are unleashing the fury. The scene was similar to Jeff Daniel’s famous laxative-induced scene in Dumb and Dumber, without the crossed-eyes and womanly gasps for air. But the squeak was present, making the ultimate finale known in all its glory.

Fine, so far so good, this story is just your usual clichéd poop story. Now I’m 15 minutes late for my exam and I just know my body is too fatigued and I still feel sufficiently weak and distracted that I can’t write my final. I talk to the professor and get it deferred to tomorrow morning. Sweet, I head home.

Now I feel there’s more in my system and I head to the toilet. Except this time it was just a small squirt of liquid. OK. I wipe. What. The. Fuck. It’s red. I think of what I ate yesterday: bacon/eggs/toast, frozen mini pizzas, strawberry yogurt, a granola bar – none of them would make my stool red. About 15 minutes later I repeat the same thing. At this point the usual Shacker response to get feedback from the pseudo-physicians contained on this wonderful web site. Instead I did the logical thing and called my Mommy! She said, “Get to a motherfucking doctor!” [paraphrased]. So I take a nap. Two hours later I wake up to repeat the earlier episodes, except this time there’s more blood.

A doctor’s visit is necessary at this point. I go to the walk-in clinic at my university and end up waiting for more than an hour with my fellow herpes infected, morning-after pill consuming peers. Really, these chicks looked like your tightly clothed, promiscuous type. At least I have eye candy as long as I don’t have to see their sores. We all sat in silence watching the Jerry Bruckheimer produced monstrosity Remember the Titans. Hey look, white people are singing black songs! Through team synergy all obstacles were overcome as the underdog takes home the gold. The little girl acts like an adult, that’s funny !!.

At this point you’re probably asking why you’re reading this – well here it comes. I finally get called into a room, a nurse takes my temperature, blood pressure, and pulse. Then she states, “The doctor will be with you shortly. He’ll want to see where the blood came from so you’ll have to remove your trousers”. They’re pants, damnit. OK, now it’s a guy and he just needs to look at my ass, that’ll be fine. Just fine. A 10 minute wait and he comes in, asks similar questions the nurse asked me, checks my stomach for cramps – none. Then he says go on your side and remove your underwater. k.

The doctor looks, says it’s “a little red”. After that explosive episode early in the morning I would think so. Then I hear a glove come out. Some lubricant. “Ok, I’m going to put my finger in”. I reply, “Well this will definitely be a first…”. So he’s doing more than just looking. The finger then penetrates my dear anal staircase, but what he didn’t add to his description was the fact he’d move his finger around! Sweet Jesus! He asks, “Is there any pain”. “No.” “Discomfort?” “Um.” “Well of course there will be discomfort, I’ll give you that.” That and then some you bastard! I can just say I won’t be following the ways of Filthysock anytime soon.

In the next few days I’ll have to collect my poop in little jars and refrigerate them until I’m done. My housemates will just love that – as if the rotting vegetables and sour cartons of coffee cream inhabiting it weren’t enough to assault your nasal passages. In January I may be getting a scope stuck up there. All this and I think I was just paranoid. The violent movements likely just left a small cut inside which led to blood secreting. Ugh, but yeah, beware the index finger of DOOM.