I don’t mean the kind like the guy who called me a “fucking idiot” in a PuG because my Oculus-fu was weaksauce. I mean literal assholes, the kind that serve as ejection holes for feces (and entrance holes for people who dig that sort of thing).
Really, assholes are way more convenient than colostomy bags. You can hide them with pants when they’re not in use, and you can direct your waste into even more convenient receptacles, like toilet bowls. The last few months have made me appreciate my asshole like no one has ever appreciated an orifice.
Why the ode to my asshole? Dad finally made it home, so the topic has been of some importance. I think we’re all in for an adventure, and by adventure, I mean the kind where you ask your husband to kill you and he says no because he’s lame. I marvel at people who find spiritual rewards in this stuff, and by marvel, I think they’re probably high or lying to themselves to get through it. I think they’re also the kind of people who believe suffering brings us closer to Zombie Jesus.
The colostomy and urine bags will be emptied and changed; he will be bathed and be given his medications; the pacemaker will be monitored; and we’ll take him to the doctor on schedule. But I wonder whether the Dad of 20 years ago would hate us for doing what we did to make him live this long.
I would.
