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In which we learn the true meaning of "evacuation"
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co·lon·os·co·py n. a medical procedure that for many adults is the first in a long series of indignities imposed upon them in the rapid, undignified slide toward old age and general decrepitude. Required preparation and execution of said procedure includes:

1. Starvation for greater than 24 hours. Consumption of "clear liquids" does not constitute nourishment.

2. Ingestion of a selection of foul liquids, ranging from a gallon of chalky fluid guaranteed to invoke the gag reflex to 3 oz. of saline solution, split into two 1.5 oz. doses, guaranteed to induce what is called on CSI "dry drowning." The patient should NOT be fooled into thinking that you can drink 1.5 ounces of anything and not spit (many women and some percentage of the male population can attest to this), because in this case the 1.5 ounces is an oily substance saturated with salt that must be a special punishment in hell reserved for those nags who constantly point out how heavy-handed everyone else is with the salt shaker.

3. Four to six hours of such constant dashes to the bathroom that you might as well pitch a tent in there because eventually, all those clear liquids you're drinking as part of the "cleansing" process will pass through you as quickly as if you just poured the glass of apple juice directly into the toilet. No middleman required, so to speak.

4. Zero hours of sleep because every time you think it just might be gas? It isn't.

5. Repeat steps 2 and 3 the morning of the procedure. Feel your stomach start to crawl up your esophagus as it reacts to the smell of bacon cooking.

6. Be greeted at the medical office by a way-too-perky nurse who really didn't need to thrust aside the dressing room curtain in mid-undress with the loud announcement, "Here - you might be more comfortable in the LARGER sized gown."

7. Finally, after getting tucked into your gurney (and thinking that the office might do well to employ a massage therapist to perform a pre-invasion foot or scalp rub), receive your happy drugs and go off to sleep, perchance to dream.

8. Wake up to find out that there was nothing to see, colon-wise and that at least the lower realms of your digestive tract are uninspiringly bland. This is preferable to being told that you have the skyline of Seattle growing in your nether regions.

9. Sign many forms pledging that you will not drive, use power tools, or make any important decisions for the rest of the day. (If I was just mean I would pray to the intestinal gods for a mass Republican colonoscopy on election day.)

10. Go home, indulge in some light sustenance (Ben and Jerry's New York Super Fudge Chunk should do it), and thank whatever deities you believe in that this doesn't have to happen again for another 5 years.

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