2004-10-24

I was paging through a fashion magazine the other day, and saw a picture of a model with a hideously distended belly. (Models do not usually have those.) I assumed it was the result of bloating, or, more likely, famine. Still, it was so horrifying that I made a little snorting noise. The Professor, an aspiring fashionista, peered over my shoulder.

“Good God,” I said, “what is wrong with this model’s stomach?”
“Ah yes.” The Professor nodded knowledgeably. “She needs a colonoscopy.”
I paused. “She needs…someone to insert a small camera into her ass (SOMEONE WHO IS ANAL ATTENTIVE, MAYBE—THE JOB OPPORTUNITIES ARE ENDLESS) and take pictures of what is going on in there, because it is obviously more attractive than what is going on out here?”
“No, no,” he said, growing visibly irritated. “She needs one of those colon…those things Madonna gets.”
“An enema?”
“It’s like an enema, only classier.”
“A high colonic?”
He clapped his hands. “Yes! She needs a high colonic.”
“You’re telling me this model needs a classy enema? She needs someone to hose down her intestines?”
“Stuff builds up in there!” he shrieked, and left the room, abandoning me to the knowledge that I married a man who believes that there are two kinds of enemas: the classy kind, and the not-so-classy kind.

previous - next