"I'll just put some rubber bands on them..."
That's what he said and, a bit off key because he had just pumped untellable amounts of air up my ass, I mumbled OK but mentioned that it didn't really matter to me if my cornhole was cute.
The doctor then took a machine which felt like it was the size of Mack truck and, to me felt like and sounded like a stapling machine and bang bang bang bang put, he said, rubber bands around the hemorrhoids I had lived peacefully with for years.
The only reason I had gone to this fugging specialist in the first place was that my general practitioner told me he couldn't tell if one of my hemorrhoids was maybe a "growth", a polyp. Well, the specialist told me right off that there were no baddies growing down there and then proceeded to make my asshole pretty.
I should have run away screaming. That's what I ended up doing anyway.
They told me I might feel some "pressure" and that there might be some bleeding when the rubber bands fell off -- jeeze, I have never invoked the name of the Almighty in so many variations, some of them obscene, if not blasphemic, in my life!
I have a cousin who once said that he hated the "invasive" examinations and his wife looked at him and said what do you mean, dear. All he answered was hmmnn. I understand him now.
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