Why Jeff Bridges is not helpful during an anal leakage crisis

Do you know that, to this day, I've never seen The Big Lebowski in its entirety? I know, I know, you guys are all like WHAT?? SACRILEGE!!

I did intend to see it once. I even saw the beginning of it when it was out in theaters, on a date with a boy a few years back. But I had to leave 20 minutes into it when warm yellow oil started pouring out of my asshole.

Hahaha! *Shakes head* Classic Becky. *Sigh.*

So I'm sitting there next to my date in the theater, holding his penis his hand, when I lean forward to adjust myself in my seat and I feel a cold draft against my tush, and OMG do you love how I said tush just then? POW! Fancy manners explosion IN YOUR FACE!! *jerking off motion, throws pretend ejaculate in your eyes*

So I feel a draft, and reach back to check it out, performing that whole "smoothing out your butt" routine that girls do when they're actually checking for their period, and I feel wetness, but SO much wetness that I know it couldn't possibly have come from me, because I hardly ever pee my pants while I'm conscious.

"Hey, you know what?" I whisper to my date. "I sat in something, I think."

"Oh, shit, really? Lemme feel your seat." He reaches down and brushes his palm over my seat cushion. "Yeah, it's wet. *sniff, sniff* I think it's popcorn butter."

"I'll be back in a sec," I whisper, and run to the bathroom.

I pull down my pants and sit down on the toilet. Yep, whatever it was had soaked through my pants and onto my panties. And yep, it's bright yellow. Popcorn butter. Great.

I reach back with some toilet paper to see if there's any still on me, and the toilet paper comes back bright yellow. I'm soaked. When I stand up to collect paper towels to wring out my pants, I notice that the toilet water is also bright yellow. "That's strange," I wonder. "It was clear when I sat down." Something is not right.

I bend down to check out the yellow toilet water, and notice that the light is not reflecting off the surface of the water normally. The surface of the toilet water seems dull and matte, rather than glassy.

I toss my wadded up toilet paper into the bowl, expecting ripples. What happens instead is that the tissue lands on the surface of the toilet water, and within seconds, what I thought was yellow toilet water begins to crack and fissure like an iceberg, revealing clear water underneath.

I sit there, staring at the yellow shards of waxy yellow substance bobbing in the toilet water, and decide that whoever had used the toilet before me had better get herself checked out quick, poor thing!

I look down at my underwear. Bright yellow.

I look at the toilet paper. Bright yellow.

The waxy shards of cooled, solidified oil floating in the toilet bowl. Heh. Gross. Not mine.

The smell of stale popcorn butter. Heh. Some people are gross. Not me though. Heh.

Can you believe the nerve of some people, pouring popcorn butter on movie theater seats, for other people to go sit on? Haha, real funny, guys. Nice job! Time slows down. Flashing montage of images...the toilet paper...my underwear...the toilet bowl...Jeff Bridges slow-motion laughing in my face... Nice job, pouring it in my underpants and all over my lady parts. Ha! Oh my God it's starting to make sense now. Nice work, strangers who aren't me, pouring popcorn butter all down my thighs! Oh mother of God, no. Oh, look, you're still at it, pranksters, aren't you? Because it's still dripping down my legs! I'm dying. Liquified organs leaking out my fufu. You people and your hijinks! Denial denial denial...

*pants up, zipped*
*sweatshirt around waist*
*flush broken waxy shards down the toilet*
*dry heave...dry heave...*
*wet paper towel on forehead*
*pay phone call to roommate*
*shaky shaky hands, please come get me*

"Psst," I tap my date on the shoulder. "I'm gonna go. You stay here though."

"What? Why? Where you going?"

"I'm gonna go to the doctor. I broke something, my lady parts exploded. I think my uterus ruptured, or my eggs cracked. I don't know. I'm in trouble though. Please don't follow me."

"The Dude abides," says movie screen Jeff Bridges, all relaxed on account of his not having any hot waxy oil pouring out any of his orifices.

*middle finger* says my hand to Jeff Bridges, because I fear hippie types in times of crisis.

Twenty minutes later, I've got my legs up in stirrups and a gynecologist's head between my thighs.

Gyno: I can't find anything. I can't imagine what that was! Hot waxy oil, you say?

Me: I think I had a miscarriage. *starts to cry*

Gyno: But...was there blood? Was there any pain?

Me: No, it must have been pretty early along. *sniffle* It must have been, like, at the yolk stage still.

Gyno: Um...yes, the yolk stage. Remind me to give you some educational pamphlets before you leave.

Me: Maybe it was my placenta. My water broke. My hot sack of baby wax.

Gyno: Seriously. Did you not take health in high school?

Me: My embryonic butter baby.

Gyno: Have you considered that it may have come from your anus? Not your vagina?

Me: Um, no, I didn't consider that, because nothing exits that hole without permits. That hole is my bitch. I've got that hole wrapped around my finger, so to speak. It's the other hole that gives me all the grief, doing whatever it wants all the damn time.

Gyno: What did you eat yesterday?

Me: *sigh* I dunno. Oatmeal, sandwich, fruit salad, veggie juice, fish, wine, the usual.

Gyno: The fish! It could have been keriorrhea, or anal leakage caused by certain types of butterfish. Was the fish oily?

Me: I guess, a little. Not, like, 10 gallons of ass oil kind of oily.

Gyno: Well, how much of it did you eat?

Me: *thinky face* All...of it? *smile*

Gyno: All of it? What do you mean? The whole fish? You ate an entire fish?

Me: It's good for you. It was escolar. Protein. Somethin somethin omega mu oil.

Gyno: Remember when we talked about portion size?

Me: Palm of your hand.

Gyno: Palm of your hand.

Me: It did fit in the palm of my hand. We didn't discuss height of the portion though. It was a tall portion. Like Jenga, but with fish.

Gyno: Okay, go ahead and play fish Jenga, but you now know that, the next day, you will leak hot waxy oil out of your anus. So...

Me: So...wear a diaper?

Gyno: Yeah, or a different choice that's not that.

Me: *thinky face* Wear...an adult diaper?

Gyno: Okay. We're done here.

Fin.

She fingered my butt, and insurance paid for it all. Everyone wins.

There is only one rule in the waiting room of the Center for Colorectal Health. 

And it is this: There is no waiting room of the Center for Colorectal Health. If you find yourself there, you were never there. Neither was I. 

But just in case you forget that rule and find yourself in this non-existent waiting room in the Center for Colorectal Health, there's a second rule, which is: 

In the waiting room of the Center for Colorectal Health, keep your eyes down at all times.

Lots of ass-shame in that room. So much ass-shame.

I couldn't quite see too well on account of following rule 2, so the memory is sketchy due to my weak peripheral vision and tendency to imagine things that might or might not have been real, but I'm pretty sure everyone there but me was in disguise. There was Guy in Black Unitard Wearing a Monocle and a Beret, who sat in the corner and twisted his fake handlebar mustache while mumbling things like "Sacre Bleu!" and "Vive la revolution!!" and "Croissant? Eh huh-huh-huh-huh? Oui?" behind his People magazine. I wasn't buying it.

There was Guy in Polo Shirt who brought his own set of golf clubs and kept practicing his swing and yelling, "Yes!! Nailed it!" and asking the receptionist in a loud, obvious voice, "Do you happen to know when my best pal the other doctor in this office besides me, his friend and esteemed colleague, will be ready for our GOLF GAME that we are having after he's done with these *dismissive wave* people with problems?" to which she'd reply, "Has your butt donut deflated again, sir? Please have a seat."

There was a patient who crept into the office holding an empty refrigerator box over his body, quietly accompanied by plinky cartoon secret-tiptoe music in an attempt to throw us all off, quickly setting his disguise down on the floor and playing the old "abandoned refrigerator box" trick every time somebody looked up. He didn't fool me though, I could see him looking around behind the eyeholes he had cut out. Good ruse, though, box guy.

I didn't wear a costume because I didn't know about the ass-shame ahead of time, but I did pose as "The busiest and most important texter in the universe" and "Woman who misplaced the cure for cancer in her wallet" and "Woman whose thoughtful introspection has transported her to a realm of inner peace that few mortals have ever known."

It bothered me that I was the only woman in there. I'm pretty sure they all assumed I'd been having shitloads of anal sex, which I haven't by the way. So to prove it I cleared my throat and said "Hey you guys, quick poll! Raise your hand if you hate anal sex!" and raised my hand, so crisis averted, ass-virtue preserved.

But just in case, to make my point clear, I borrowed a post-it pad from the receptionist and made some signs for my ass, and then sauntered casually around the room for a bit.

They brought me into an exam room early. 

Inside the exam room was a plastic model of a cross-section of an asshole, which happened to have been afflicted with every possible ailment known to ass. 

Finally the doctor arrived.

Doctor: Hi, I'm Dr. Beth. (Holds out hand to shake)

Me: Ah...Oh...you know what? (Holding hands up) Wet hands. (Oh well)

Doctor: So...tell me a little about why you're here.

Me: Um...really? I think that's for me to know and you to find out. 

Doctor: ...

Me: *intimidating fake-out shoulder thrust*

Doctor: You're not going to tell me why you're here?

Me: I'll tell you to mind your own fucking business is what I'll tell you.

Doctor: Don't be embarrassed! Come on, how am I supposed to help you if you won't tell me what's wrong?

Me: 20 questions?

Doctor: You want me to guess?

Me: I'll say hot or cold.

Doctor: How about you just tell me.

Me: Two truths and a lie?

Doctor: One truth, no lies.

Me: Split the difference? One truth, one lie, and one lie of omission?

Doctor: You've never been to a colorectal specialist before, have you?

Me: Hey! I'm thinking of an even number between 1 and 100...

Doctor: 82.

Me: Yes. That's right. (Sigh.) Please don't stick your finger up my ass.

Doctor: You know what? Let's just talk for a bit, get to know each other. 

Me: I'm scared. I've never...done this before.

Doctor: Don't worry, you're safe here. (snaps on rubber gloves)

The thing is...the thing that gets me...the thing about this experience that haunts me...is that...what you don't expect is that...

*lip tremble*

*bravely wipes eyes with forearm*

You know how in movies, they bend you over the table? I was ready for that. 

And you know how at the gyno, they put your legs up in stirrups? I could've handled that.

But what she did was...she rolled me onto my side and told me to pull my legs up to my chest. Then she stuck her jellied finger up my butt while I lay in the fetal position, which is like tucking someone into bed with their teddy bear and a cup of hot cider and nestling them in the arms of the tooth fairy as Santa sits at the foot of the bed making his list and checking it twice and telling you that you've been a good girl and then surprise! Look over there! It's your Nana giving a donkey a hand job! Yeah, see? Confused feelings is right!

Once I was able to calm down and stop shrieking "Oh my God! I'm pooping right now! Poop coming out I can feel it for real this time!!" every time she got her fingertip half an inch in, her finger was only up there long enough for me to groan, "I don't liiiike this one little biiiiiittttttt...." and then it was done, but fetal position is forever ruined.

Sorry, yoga cooldown. 

Sorry, restful catnaps.

Sorry, in utero soothing night sounds CD.

Doctor's orders involved buying lots of things at the drug store that are usually reserved for old people, and lots of things that are usually reserved for babies, and basically confusing the hell out of my asshole to the point that it just settles the fuck down. Break it down with harsh words, and then build it back up with compliments until I've got it wrapped around my little finger, so to speak. I'm gonna be my asshole's Ike Turner, giving it the back of my hand and screaming, "I'll TELL you what's love got to do with it, bitch!!" *SMACK!* And then giving it a diamond tennis bracelet and cooing, "You know you're my best asshole. My ONLY asshole. You know you shouldn't make me mad like that, baby." This Ike and Tina thing isn't part of the doctor's orders, but I can read between the lines. It's what she DIDN'T prescribe that counts.

But she did say I need to chew my almonds better. That makes sense I guess.