Jack Grisham
Jack Grisham

True Story: World Up My Ass

[Editor's Note: Jack Grisham is an author, hypnotherapist, T.S.O.L. front man and all-around troublemaker. This column, True Story, may or may not be factual, with characters who may or may not be real.]

I've lived a lifestyle that has been characterized by defiance and reckless abandon. I've been ice-picked; razor-bladed; car-crashed; pumped full of poison in both pill and powder form; and ingested more than my share of the narcotic alcohol, including a few hundred gallons of good old MD 20/20--a wine that surely has never seen an actual grape.

The thing is, I didn't expect to live this long. I never thought I'd have children or people who really cared for me; I never thought I'd fall so in love with life that I wouldn't want to leave. I never thought I'd marry a woman who was so concerned with keeping me around.


"Yeah, Baby?"

"I want you to get a colonoscopy."

"You want to wait until the kids are gone, or do you want to sneak into the garage?" "I'm not kidding."

"Baby, I don't need a pipe up my ass. I'm fucking indestructible. I'm a machine; I'm an animal. I'm--"

She picked up the phone and started dialing. "Do you want to see him in the morning or the afternoon?"

The doctor was kind enough--some Indian cat who kept making ass jokes, and I was given a date for the procedure and a prescription for a laxative and a 4-liter bottle of human Drain-O. I was also given detailed instructions on how I was going to get "cleaned out." Now, I'd heard the prep for a colonoscopy is worse than the test itself, but it wasn't so bad. Yeah, the drink tasted like lime-flavored anti-freeze, but it wasn't unpleasant to an ex-"Mad-Dog" drinker. And the constant trips to the toilet weren't so bad, either. The whole prep thing was like a weak Tijuana hangover--just the shits with no headache or jail time--and in a sick way, I kind of enjoyed it.

After I was thoroughly cleansed, I checked in at the surgery center. There was a queue of patients waiting to get probed, and I took my place in line. The nurses slapped me into a backless nightie and rolled my bed right into the procedure room. An I.V. was popped into my hand.

"I'm a bit nervous," I said.

The anesthesiologist leaned over and smiled.

"You're not nervous," she replied. "You're just not in control, and it frightens you." "What the fuck? I'm not here to get analyzed; I'm here to get . . ." . . . I woke up.

I don't know if you've ever been Propofol'd, but that shit is heavy. I was out, and then awake, before I even had a chance to complain. And my procedure? It was over. That's it--knocked out, violated and released. It was no big deal.

I've come to in all sorts of situations, but this is the first time I ever came out of a blackout doing something positive. My colonoscopy reduced my chance of death by colon cancer by 53 percent, and my wife couldn't be happier.

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