Bob, The Anal Fissure
This is an Internet Classic. I went hunting for it so you can enjoy it as much as I did the first time. I was crying with laughter when I read this!
“Bob, the Anal Fissure” by Joe Cidoni
Part 1 – The Rise of Bob
I feel the need to tell you about my anal fissure, Bob.
It all started about two years ago in Thailand. I had just fired a round of green chile liquishit down the hole that the Asians call “toilet” when I noticed an odd sensation just inside the rim of my sphincter accompanied by a blasting spray of rich red blood.
After living in Asia for six months I thought that I had experienced nearly every digestive tract malady known to man. Worms, burning and colonic liquidity on a huge scale. Butt (hehe) this was something completely different.
It was a singularly unique feeling that I know now to have been the actual tearing of my rectum. It was Bob making himself know to me.
At first Bob wasn’t so bad. Occasional itch and discomfort. Nothing that I couldn’t handle. A mint flavored suppository now and again seemed to do the trick.
But then about a year ago my cruel master Bob began requiring more and more from me. Itching on a scale that can only be desribed as “hellish” was the order of the day. I had a permanent brown stain on my index finger from trying to scratch the inside of my colon through my troubled anus.
I had lost all sense of decorum. I no longer cared what people thought. I often walk around in public with my hand down my pants, finger firmly implanted, trying to appease the evil God Bob.
In my spare time I would daydream about modifying various farm impliments to deal with the overwhelming itch. I even went so far as to order a tined hand trowel.
Finally, I went to see a doctor. He made a quick diagnosis of hemmorhoids and let me go with a perscription for some industrial strength hemlube (tm.) The doc never saw Bob, who had retreated into his tear in fear of his only natural enemy, the medical practioner.
This only made Bob more angry and he visited wanton terror upon me. I began babbling to myself and have conditioned myself so against shitting that it is only with a great nashing of teeth to I make my approach to the bowl. As the chocolate tube steak descends I feel my rectum tear assunder like the curtain of the holy tabernacle. Bob laughing. Bob laughing.
Now, I have finally found a doctor that can help me. She made the diagnosis with a flashlight clamped firmly in her teeth. I had met her in a bar and Bob was not expecting a midnight diagnosis on my living room floor. “No problem” she said.
I have since been scheduled for surgery on October 29th to exorcise Bob from my most tender of parts. He seems to have accepted his fate and has been more peacefull as of late. We spend our time singing and reminiscing about our last two years together. We talk about the life after this one and I comfort him with rectal salve and oatmeal.
I will post details of the operation, and details about the demise of Bob.
I hope that he will be brave.
Part 2: A Man called Ream
Some of you may remember my previous post regarding my anal fissure, Bob.
The surgery that had been scheduled for October 29th has been postponed until December the first. Bob has had a stay of execution or a reprieve if you will.
Bob has become a holy terror of an anal fissure and my surgeon has informed me that the most effective way of dealing with Bob is a form of surgical exorcism that is know to the medical profession as; VIOLENT ANAL DILATION. I am not making this up! They are going to anaesthetize Bob and I and then dilate my asshole to a diameter that until that moment it had never known.
My greatest fear is becomming conscious and out of the corner of my eye seeing the medical staff zipping up their trousers.
Semi tasteless: I have met a man named Ream. This is his name. Word of honor. It just seems so appropriate that I meet him at the stage of my life when violent anal dilation is required. Maybe I should spare myself the trauma of surgery and spend more time with Ream.
Part 3: Violent Anal Dilation
As you know, my anal fissure Bob and I were due to be separated today. By that most tasteless of medical marvels, violent anal dialation, Bob was to be no more.
The hospital scheduled the dialation over a week ago. They had sent me some medicine that I was to take the night before, and the morning of the procedure. It consisted of an overdose of some kind of laxitive pill and two suppositories the size of a sputnik.
Yesterday evening I had ingested the pills and inserted the Grogan Buster(tm) industrial strength stool liquifier. Around ten, I began to feel the need, and by 10:15 I was sitting on the throne enjoying one of the most massive squats of my life. Everything, and I mean EVERYTHING that was not original equipment that came with my digestive tract was madly scrambling for the exit.
Sound like fun? Well, for a while it was. Then things began to go wrong.
I had evacuated myself from stem to stern. Enough allready I thought. Things slowed down, and I showered off.
This morning, I awoke at 4:00 am and as according to my physicians instructions, inserted the remaining suppository. Mistake. By 5:00 I was fully in the throes of the colonic “dry heaves.” There was nothing to shit, but my colon was recieving a chemical message to evacuate at any cost. What had started out as a good time was rapidly turning into a nightmare.
I arrived at the hospital at 9:00. I was greeted by a nurse who looked as though she belonged in the WWF. I surrendered my trousers and at her command was treated to not one, but two enemas. There was some kind of chemical added to “help clean you out.” I once again began desperately trying to expell the contents of my digestive system. Alas, it had been empty since the night before. I sat on the bowl, my sphincter twitching in and out as it tried to pass the phantom grogan that it thought was there. It began to hurt. Bad. For the next half hour I was in such terrible pain. My asshole felt as though it had been beaten with a baseball bat. Eventually, the pain began to subside.
I was led into an ajoining examination room. A doctor that hadn’t seen or fingered me before was there. He explained that my surgery was postponed for a week because they had decided that one final test should be performed.
I should stop here to tell you that I am an American living in the country of Finland. Yeah, I speak some Finnish. But it’s limited to things like “Gee, those are nice tits.” So I wasn’t too hep to the terminology of Finnish speaking proctologists.
If I knew what was about to happen, I never would have laid down on that table.
THE SCOPE! OUCH! OhJeesusOhJeesusOhJeesus.
Never do this! No matter what they tell you! No matter how hard they plead and cajole. Believe me, death is preferable.
What happened to me next was this: A doctor snaked a 60 cm fiber optic hose up my fundament. It had a viewing scope on one end, and a device to pump air into my colon on the other. As he manipulated it up my rectum I could feel the head move through the colon. I could imagine the bright light moving through the labyrinth of sphincters and valves. It reminded me of a motorcyle headlight racing through the Holland tunnel.
The searing pain was intense. At one point in time, I felt as if the thing was pressing on my lungs. I definitely felt it try to enter something that I was sure was some kind of door to my stomach. At that moment, I began to sweat profusely. The world began to spin. My stomach tried to retch, but again, nothing to barf. There I was, lying naked on a cold table with a scope up my air filled colon trying to spew when a plan for revenge crept into my mind. With all my might I pressed my diaphram down into the pressurized shit chamber. A tremendous wet fart sang around the hose and out my asshole. It was accomponied by the overwhelming stench of impacted fecal matter. A small smile crossed my lips. The doctor and nurse pretended as though nothing had happened. It was only seconds later though that the tube was retracted and the nurse had to wipe my liquishit smeared rectum.
Needless to say, a good time was had by all.
Part 4: Twilight of the Fissure
My anal fissure Bob and what happened.
It’s been a while since violent anal dilation.
I’m afraid that I have neglected my duties by not telling you about it sooner. But I have been at some loss for words about it.
My anal fissure Bob who had plagued me for the last three years is in the process of dying.
After the violent anal dilation I had expected to awaken from my anaes- thetized slumber to find that Bob had been completely destroyed. Annihilated by modern medicine in a small sterile room of a hospital in Seinajoki Finland. A rich heritage of blood and pain wiped out in minutes by strangers in mask and gown.
It all started a couple of Mondays ago at 7 am. I hadn’t slept much the night before. Bob was quiet, but I lay awake thinking about what was to come the next morning. I was a little worried. I was about to experience something called violent anal dilation and I was a bit concerned. I found out later that my fears about the procedure where in fact pretty close to reality.
I arrived at the hospital in good spirits. I was shown my bed and given the button up the back surgical minidress. Even though the procedure wasn’t scheduled until 1:30 I was required to change into the garment. I suppose that it’s a manditory indignity to humiliate and degrade potential trouble- makers. Maybe word had gotten out that I had been asking questions about the procedure. What kind of drugs that they would be giving me, if my physician had performed many of these procedures etc. Medical personnel here don’t like being quized by foriegners with anal fissures. It had taken lots of explain ing just to get permission to have a video taped documentary of the procedure made and released to me. I had to get my local practitioner to request it. It has since been explained to me that most procedures are taped anyway. They just don’t release the tapes to the public.
I was in bed dozing when I felt a sharp pain in my ass. I whirled my head around in bed to see a rather stern and matronly looking woman with a large enema bag. Presumably it was her and her nozzle ‘o fun that was causing the distress. I admired her technique. I was asleep. She probably figured that I would sleep right through it. What, and miss all the fun? Not likely. Besides, she was about as gentle as a bull elephant. Anal fissure Bob let out a sharp cry of pain. And so did I. She smiled and patted my head like a lap dog as she filled my rectum. As I looked around the room, I realized that we were not alone. Not 10 feet away was the wife and 2 teenage daughters of the vericose vein strip down in the bed next to me. They were all checking me out. I smiled my best grimace and tried to enjoy myself.
At 1:00 my doctor dropped by for a chat. The first thing that I noticed about him was that the hand that he extended in greeting had a slight palsy. Actually, it was more of a tremor. This is true! “Halloo” he said with a poorly forced smile that revealed his large yellow teeth.” I spake anglish warry badney.” ” Uh….hi” I stammered “I speak a little Finnish; we will try to talk;” “OK” he agreed. We chatted about the usual stuff…..pain…. etc. I’m trying to ask the guy about the procedure when out of the blue, he looks up and says “We will tear you a new asshole.” I am not making this up. By this time, I am not feeling very confident about what’s going on and am giving some serious thought to just getting up and leaving. I knew about A.F. Bob. He was something that I could understand. I could live with him. This surgeon was something else. An unknown X with a license to dilate. He gave me two tiny white pills to swallow. “For made you relax” he said. Hmmmm this guy was starting to speak my language, maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all. “Seee yuuu in da operashunn place” he said and was gone.
I began feeling a little light headed from whatever drug it was that he had given me when two orderlies came in. They spoke low and softly to me in Finnish. Who knows what they were talking about. I just kept nodding my head stupidly. I couldn’t have answered them anyway as my toungue was stuck to the roof of my parched mouth. As they rolled me down the hall I tried to count the number of acoustic tiles in the ceiling.
Eventually, we arrive at the big swinging doors of the operating room and are met by two others in surgical greens. It was like a prisoner exchange at the Rhine. They greeted each other. The two that transported me there wish me a happy dilation, hand over my file to the others, then turn and leave me with the dilation team.
As we enter the operating theatre I begin to feel quite aprehensive. My toungue is thick in my mouth. I am transferred to the main operating table. The anaesthetist walks in and without so much as a hello started tapping my forearm to find a suitable vein. I try to greet him but all that comes out is a horrible sqwak.
I had been relieved of my meager garment and I lay there, alone and naked. I look down in horror to see that my penis and testicles have completely withdrawn into my abdomen. Perhaps they had seen it first and were trying to warn me because there, on a stainless steel tray, nestled amongst strange looking devices is the object of my aprehension. It is some sort of anal battering ram. It is stainless steel and is about a foot long. It has two handles bolted to it. And for all the world it looked like one of those Stanley thermoses.
By this time, a vein had been found and been hooked up to the Anaesthetist. He still hasn’t said anything so I find my voice. “How about a little valium to get thing started.” He surprises me by speaking perfect English. “Here;” he said,”Try this” and injects something into the hookup that *IMMEDIATELY* makes me feel secure and right at home. No more problems. I chuckle at the prospect of the stainless invader.
As this all was happening, the nurses were quite busy. They had stainless steel poles that they were affixing to the sides of the operating table. On top of these poles were large plastic blocks that were deeply indented to accomodate what could only be my thighs. A more compromising version of the stirrups that doctors often use to examine women. And truly, the video has born my theory out. My buttring is bright, exposed, and nearly eye level to the weilder of the dilation tool.
The chief dilator strolls in, and nods at the anaesthetist. The latter hooks up a large syringe full of what looked like vaseline to my I.V. line and says “See you later.” I remember trying to fight it just to see if I could. I couldn’t. I remember having a monster head rush and trying to speak. That’s the last thing that I remember.
It’s only now that I review the video tape that I realize the horror of what actually happened to me.
It’s strange to see yourself lying on a cold slab, your penis retracted falling unconcious. Right after I go out, a nurse puts a black rubber mask over my face. Two attendants raise my thighs into the “stirrups” and scrunch me down so that my ankles are bent straight back towards my head. The camera angle is from straight overhead, so you get a weird out of body feeling watching the whole thing. One nurse manipulates what’s left of my genetalia out of the way while another unceramoniously paints my asshole with some sort of red tinted disinfectant.
The doctor wastes no time and before you can say “Is he asleep?” has two of his fingers deep into my ass. He checks around and durring the examination gives my prostate a mighty push. I swear that I shoot a load of something straight onto my belly where it just sits there through the rest of the procedure. The doctor gives a grunt of satisfaction and reaches for the dilator.
Nurses squirt some kind of lubricant from a large syringe into and around my ass. The surgeon then inserts the end of the dilation unit ino my ass and begins rotating it left and right. Soon he had my poor asshole fully dilated. And I mean *DILATED*. There I am out like a light with a stainless steel thermos up my ass. Every thirty seconds or so the doctor does a 360 with the thing.
Everyone is looking pretty bored, especially me.
After about 1/2 hour of this, the doctor removes the dilator and PUTS HIS ENTIRE HAND UP MY ASS. This is the best part of the video. If you have had a few drinks and squint a little it looks for a moment like some kind of bizzare bondage/fisting film.
A satisfied nod and the nurses move in for the clean up. Someone has the presense of mind to wipe the manually ejaculated fluid off of my belly. Someone swabs the shit and blood from my ass.
I get another syringe of something in my arm. The mask comes off my face. A nurse shakes me gently and my eyes flutter open. “Is it over?” I ask with wonderous shining eyes. Lots of nods around the room. “I dreamed” I say. “Wow, I feel fine!”
End of video.
They wheel me into the recovery room where I try to sit up. I carefully reach down in a cautious exploration of my asshole. It is confounded with a giant tamponlike stuffing. “Uh oh” I think to myself and try to ignore it. It’s only later when they pull the stuffing out do I realize the full extent of what’s happened.
Anyway, a little later I eat some soup and vomit it back up right away. The vomit is a vile green.
The next day, I took the first effortless shit that I had in sometime. Oh joy! Oh nirvana.
After the surgery, Bob was still his usual self. In fact, he was more terrible than usual. He had expected sudden death and when he awoke, believing that he had survived a professional ass (hehe) ass (hehe) ination attempt he was even more pissed off and motivated then before. He had felt betrayed, and had amused himself for the first several days after the procedure by visiting a torturous itching upon me, his host.
The hard part about his slow strangulation is that I can feel him dying. He groans and complains like any other terminal patient. I must take him with me wherever I go. We are like the Siamese twins Chang and Eng. Can I survive without my symbiotic buddy?
Well, at least fire and blood won’t shoot out of my ass every time that I try to pop a stubborn grogan. I will no longer know the joys of crying real tears when I shit. For a long time I was told that painful elimination was unnatural. Now, I truly understand.
Now, two weeks later Bob is only a faint echo of his former self. He is still hanging onto life, but only just. He is still there, and ugly slash of an anal fissure. But no longer red and pusy. The occasional itch. That is all. And even that is fading rapidly.
And oh yes….my butthole has sprung back to a more managable size. Your asshole really is an incredible machine.
I had a small dinner party on Christmas day. After dinner I put on the video. It took about twenty minutes before anyone realised that it was me. I guess they thought it was Nova or something. Ho Ho Ho.