I wish unto you a very merry Poop Day.
My calendar is funny.
I write normal dates in, like my nephew’s birthday, appointments, events – that sort of stuff.
You know, the reason to have a calendar in the first place.
But I also write non-essential notes on my calendar.
In reading over last year’s agenda, I find I wrote things like:
- Buy worlds.
- Visit stupid people.
- Day of the worms.
- Map that shit.
- Call fart-face.
- Fire someone.
There are also multiple doodles, but since they involve poorly drawn stars and shit like that, I am not including them.
Get your own squiggles.
This month is no different.
My calendar is funny and there are doodles and stupid reminders which mean nothing to strangers but which make perfect sense to me.
You should be jealous of how funny I am in my own mind.
But there is one note on this month’s calendar which LOOKS funny and actually isn’t.
I mean, it’s funny to write about, but it’s not going to be funny when it happens. I am completely losing my shit over this upcoming event.
Two weeks from now is Poop Day.
See, I’m scheduled for surgery on Tuesday, August 19 – which happens to be my hubz’ birthday, so I know I won’t die because that would render my death cruel and senseless, whereas I plan to die a motherfucking hero, like by saving a kid from getting run over by oncoming traffic, or something cool like that.
Death by uterus removal on my lover’s bday? Not so much. No effing way. Not happening.
Yeah, my surgery is that hysterectomy you’ve heard so much about. I am very excited, insofar as one can be excited about organs being cut out of one’s body. I guess I should say I am very excited to be rid of my pesky and worthless uterus, albeit not necessarily of the process thereby.
It’s gonna be awesome… eventually.
The day prior to surgery…
…patients are required to void their bowels.
This means, in simple terms, I will be shitting my brains out on Monday, August 18 – Poop Day.
And since I will be shitting my brains out, I need to plan ahead for it. Like, there should be plenty of toilet paper in stock, along with baby wipes for when things get ugly.
And – most importantly – there should be no people in this motherfucking house, you guys.
- My baby girl will be spending some extra time at her dad’s house.
- My son will be going to class, and from there to work, and I told him he needs to have plans to be OUT that night.
- I’m forcing my hubz to work an open-to-close shift so he’ll be gone during most of the trauma.
Just to double-check that no one forgets or overlooks this date, I had to write it on the calendar.
Hence, Poop Day is now a scheduled family event.
I ain’t trying to run to the toilet every five minutes with people around snickering about my activities. And I certainly do not want the aroma de caca which will surely permeate the air to become a subject of discussion, particularly while I’m suffering the throws of dukedom.
I was worried I might have to have an enema, which I believe is something you stick up your ass, and I was not looking forward to this in the slightest.
Thankfully, there will be no butt-insertion for this shit-fest. Rather, I had to purchase a powder called Miralax which I am to mix with 64 ounces of Gatorade. I am to drink 8 ounces of this concoction every fifteen minutes, with no dilly-dallying or pussy-ass sipping. It specifically says so. Or something to that effect, anyway.
The drinking begins at 1pm. That’s on the calendar, too.
My calendar is funny, indeed.
Is your calendar as funny as mine?
- Have you ever indulged in some good ol’ Miralax poopage?
- How soon after the first glass do you think the party will begin?
- What flavor of Gatorade would you choose for your Miralax potion?
- Would you be okay hosting Poop Day with your family underfoot?