In reference to my post Monday, first, trivially, spell check nailed me again, I wrote “bolus” (incorrectly) and it got corrected to “bolts,” also incorrect. Should probablybly used “turd.”
At any rate, I took another enema yesterday for investigatory purposes, to see whether any more hard fecal masses were forming. I did not have the urge to defecate. As is my wont, I held this enema for a couple hours. Why waste an opportunity to jerk off? When I did get around to evacuating, the only solid waste I could produce was a few small turds.
My hypothesis is this: Last year my son, knowing my propensity for dietary experimentation, gave me a bag of shelled hemp seeds. I didn’t try them for several months and when I finally did sprinkle some on my veggie bowl I came up with a terrible bout of constipation, which I previously wrote about. I stopped eating hemp seeds and, voila, no more constipation. But stupid me, I couldn’t resist experimenting, so last Thursday, I think, I ran out of onions and substituted some hemp seeds. I think that might have precipitated my bout of constipation Sunday. I have a hunch that the seeds are not compatible with my present diet. I’m tossing the seeds, and we’ll see whether l have any more tough shit.
Incidentally, it’s not like this has been a long standing problem. I have taken many, many enemas in my 82 years, but all except one have been for recreational purposes. As a very young child my mother, who was cleary a klismaphile, used to whittle suppositories out of a bar of Ivory soap and use them on me if my bowels had not moved to her liking. The suppos were painful and I learned to “produce” to her liking to forestall them.
There was a hiatus then, from about the ages of 3 and 6, where mom did not fuss over my bowels at all. Mom always had a red open top enema bag hanging over the bath tub; maybe she was using it on herself too much to worry about me. The only exception was in my sixth year when one evening I overheard her tell my father, “I think he needs an enema.” My father acceded, and they wound up giving me probably a quart or so of soapy water. It was strangely pleasant and exciting, and although it was the only enema I ever got from my parents I have little doubt that it played a major role in turning me into a life-long klismophile.
Fin, acerbas