Asphincter Says What?
In school, I was no science prodigy. I was just OK at biology. And I made a barely passable effort in chemistry.
But physics- well, that was even worse. In a failing effort to teach me relativity theory equations, one of my physics professors (whom I had driven to his wits’ end) came up with a special physics problem just for me involving an X-Wing Fighter flying past the Death Star at the speed of light. He hoped that my dense brain would finally wrap itself around the problem if the challenge appealed to my geeky nature.
I still got a C+.
Knowing how to take a hint, I never considered a career as a physician.
I do, though, have the privilege of knowing many highly competent and talented doctors. Most of their days, it seems, are fairly uneventful. But on occasion, as in every workplace, embarrassing and humorous moments do occur.
But funny moments at hospitals are always much more funny than episodes elsewhere.
Because they usually involve someone’s sphincter.
Always Use The Right Tools for the Job
After performing many physical exams supervised by her teaching physicians, a new intern began giving patients physicals on her own.
After a few solo sessions, the teaching physicians were perplexed. About halfway through each session, they kept hearing a sharp grunt or a muffled cry emanating from behind the exam room door.
After hearing this audible anomaly a few times, one of the more experienced doctors decides to sit in on the new intern’s next physical, in case she had overlooked a step.
You guessed it: She gloved up for the rectal exam like every good doctor should (*sss-nap!*). But she forgot to use lubricant to *ahem* ease the discomfort.
Improvised Explosive Device
A patient comes in, complaining of being constipated for several days. They give her some oral laxatives and send her home.
It doesn’t seem to help. She returns. Her abdomen, naturally, is in a lot of pain at this point.
They admit her to the hospital. The doctors consult with each other to resolve the obstruction. They put her in stirrups and give her suppositories. And more suppositories.
This continues for a quite a while. She’s backed up. She’s lying down, in stirrups. They keep giving her suppositories. Nothing’s happening.
Finally, after a few days of this, one of the nurses hears a bursting sound (*BOOM*!!!) coming from the room.
The dam had burst. Or rather, exploded.
There was poop everywhere.
The linens.
The bed.
The floor.
The wall facing the bed.
Inside the air conditioning vent.
The poor nurses were none too happy about clean-up detail. But the backed up lady sure was happy her problem had finally cleared up.
You Say Tomato, I Say Rectal Exam
A doctor is giving a physical.
The patient speaks only Spanish.
The doctor learned Spanish in school. So, in his effort to communicate effectively, he conducts the physical en Espanol.
Or so he thinks.
The first part of the physical goes smoothly. Then comes the rectal exam (told you- every funny story involves someone’s sphincter).
The doctor explains the rectal exam procedure to the patient (in Spanish, of course). That the patient would have to turn around, partially disrobe, and bend over the exam table. That the doctor would then insert his finger into the patient’s rectum to check for abnormalities.
The doctor then leaves the room to get some supplies.
Upon returning, the patient is standing there in his hospital gown.
Underwear off.
Bending backwards.
With his own finger up his ass.
tags :: jokes : humor : doctor : hospital : suppository : sphincter
It was a different time, a different place. People lived their lives by the water, along a patchwork of klongs, or canals, stitched together like a moving, flowing tapestry. Teak houses perched on stilts lined the waterways. Wives did the household laundry on their dock steps, keeping a watchful eye as their children splashed and played. Merchants carrying food and goods paddled their flatbed canoes to and fro, occasionally stopping at a house to trade goods or gossip, oftentimes both.
Each morning the smell of burning incense wafted from house to house as people prayed to Buddha before starting their day. They prayed for guidance, forgiveness, comfort. Happiness. Hope. At daybreak, monks dressed in flowing orange robes silently glided from home to home, collecting humble offerings of food and other basic necessities for their sustenance. In that era, people donated their time and effort -not just their money- to build gilded temples. They had belief and faith in a Greater Power.
For days she knelt in front of the shrine ensconced on her porch. Neighbors looked on with concern as they sat on their porches along the water, knowing that there were no words to comfort her. She prayed to the golden statue of Buddha, alternately sobbing and whispering her sorrow and bottomless despair.
Was what happened the result of mere coincidence, or the sign of a Higher Power at work? In our hurried, cynical world, it would be nice, if only briefly, to imagine life in a teakwood house along that canal. Where the travelling scent of burning incense from each home mingles in an unspoken communal blessing, and spirituality and holiness flow freely upon the water. Where a person can kneel beside the water and whisper a prayer, creating in that solemn moment a true hope that what you wish for may come true.
Blogs are so varied. Some blogs I’ve come across include carefully crafted original graphics and pictures, and are written in a very polished manner. Some are more conversational. Others are spazzy. And then there are the incomprehensible ones that look like the bloggers type with their toes while watching “Cops” and eating Chinese take-out.
I’m probably somewhere in the middle. I don’t know anything about the technical aspects of good writing, and I don’t have the design skills to achieve high production values. But, I do care about not having my posts look like I barfed them out and didn’t bother to clean them up. So I write several posts simultaneously, well in advance of publishing them. I then re-read, re-phrase, re-arrange, re-write, correct, edit, and proofread each of them over several days.
In his despair and anxiety, he passed out and cracked his head on the keyboard while writing this post. When he came to, he tried to slit his wrists. Thankfully he was unable to find an actual razor blade and didn’t get very far with his electric shaver.
He also swallowed an entire bottle of pills. Luckily the only pills in our medicine cabinet were laxatives. It’s causing unpleasant bouts of nitrogen-laden green diarrhea every half hour. So now some of his tighty whiteys are discarded stinky greeneys. But he’ll live and that’s what matters.
We have him on an Alprazolam drip and a strict diet of 7-UP and Saltine crackers.
The other day, I emailed my friend Shont and said something like: “Hey! This blog thing is pretty fun! But, now that I have a few blog friends who read my posts, I feel some pressure to consistently write interesting things. It’s not as easy-going as when I first started blogging, when just friends and family would stop in to see how pathetic my Joke of the Week was.”
So, time to put my bloated ego back in its place. (I suspect it usually resides in my ass, given the required cubic footage). To accomplish this, I have listed all the non calorie burning activities (for me, there is no other kind) that I would rather do than read SuckyBlog:
Wait a minute. I write SuckyBlog. I don’t read it also. That would be narcissistic, and I can’t afford for my ego (or my ass) to grow any bigger. So scratch everything I just said, go do a Rorschach boogerblot test, and tell me what you see.
I did, though, join a fitness club because I like to swim and shoot basketball for fun, even though I suck at both (that’s me, Jack “
Ray: *sigh*. Jack, you know, the food component is very important to the weight loss goal. It’s like 60% diet / 40% exercise in terms of getting results.
Jack: Like, the health bars you sell in that cabinet there?
Ray: Let’s go work on some weights. [Hooks me up to some machine with weights.] Now do twenty reps and then pause.
One day a long, long, time ago in a town not so far, far, away, I was hanging out with my friend Shont and his sister Arpi. (Aside: These are real names, people. My buddy’s name is Shont and his sister’s name is Arpi. They are full-blooded Americans, born and raised in Los Angeles. I’m not making this up. If I were to make up strange non-American sounding names, they’d be called Neetork and Clutox.) Arpi’s friend Azure was also present. (Aside part deux: Azure. yet another uncommon name, but at least it’s an English word…derived from French. O brother. I mean, mon Dieu.)
Arpi and Azure were going on and on about the movie “Pretty Woman”: Ohhhhh it’s the best movie ever. Ohhhhh Richard Gere is so handsome in it. Ohhhhh Julia Roberts is so perky! Ohhhhhh it’s so cute how they fall in love. Ohhhhh I really identify with that movie. Ohhhhh where’s the boom box- let’s all sway to a 
Once there was this director from Modesto, California. He had recently made a movie about teenagers in a small whitebread American town, cruising around on a weekend night. Starring Opie. Also in the cast were Shirley (Laverne’s best friend) and The Fugitive. (Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon in Reverse? Anyone?)
Encouraged by the positive initial reaction, the filmmaker continues: “Here’s my latest draft of the script. I’ll give you the highlights. It takes place in outer space. The main characters wear loose-fitting, flowing robes, as if a civilization with light-speed transport technology never bothered to invent a sewing machine. The princess wears a cinammon roll on each side of her head. She wanted to make a fashion statement but couldn’t find any white iPod earbuds. Everyone has a laser gun which shoots deadly energy-based projectiles thousands of feet, but the hero uses a laser sword, which shoots nothing and has a range of three feet. The hero and the princess are actually siblings by birth, but the pervey sage only reveals this to them after the princess slips her own brother the tongue.
“The villain wears a black samurai helmet on his head and has a 10-pound bionic lung strapped to his chest that looks like the Commodore 64’s great grandchild. He also dons a weird-looking mechanical facemask with big black Jackie O-style goggle lenses. When he talks, he sounds like a late-stage emphysema patient.
“There are two characters written in for comic relief. They are robots with human personalities. One is a neurotic, uptight nervous nelly. But male. The other robot is not in human form. He looks more like a white and blue suppository on wheels. He doesn’t speak English. He just utters a series of beeps and chirps, yet everyone in that universe can understand everything he says.
“One of the hero’s friends is a roguish character who is a space-faring pirate. He wears a white long-sleeved shirt underneath a black vest with a gun and holster strapped low on his thigh, as if he were the long lost seventh member of the 
I once watched an interview with George Lucas. They asked him how he came up with the Chewbacca character. He said that he used to have a dog named Indiana (yes, he named Indiana Jones after his dog). Indiana (the dog, not Harrison Ford) used to sit upright in the front seat of his car while they drove around town, and Lucas thought it was funny that she sat there like a person, as if a dog were co-piloting the vehicle. So he worked it into the “Star Wars” script.
If it hadn’t happened, I never would have known what a lightsaber is, let alone sign up for lightsaber fighting lessons. It’s important for a fully-grown man to know how to properly wield a functioning lightsaber. Otherwise he may accidentally slice his Star Wars action figure display case in half while pretending to be Darth Maul. In the privacy of his bedroom. Wearing nothing but tighty whiteys.
