The Enema Within
By late Sunday, after two weekends at the office, intensive colonic irrigation was more appealing than reality.
“At least I could contribute to the increasingly competitive enema discussions. Someone had always passed something harder, brighter, more bizarre. Margaret’s chopsticks had unearthed some gristle, about a foot long, and hard, black pellets. She was so impressed she took a photograph. A few chalets away, Mez had passed “rubbery brown, fat worms” with a strange purple glaze, which she insisted on showing to me in her bathroom. But the clear winner was Anthony’s 22-year-old marble. Perhaps the most bizarre thing, which I didn’t appreciate until days later, is that it all seemed perfectly normal at the time.”
“Colema” treatment sounds like psychotherapy. Distasteful until you do it, at which point you can’t stop blabbing about it. And then you feel sorry for everyone else carrying around a lifetime’s worth of impacted shit.