The Autobiography Of Seamus Muldoon's Colon

By Seamus Muldoon, Himself
Copyright © 1997-2017
All Rights Reserved

At last, I am getting some attention and respect!

But I am getting ahead of myself. So many thoughts and emotions are now swirling through me. Where and how to begin? It has not been easy being Seamus Muldoon’s colon. Think about that for a few moments. Would you wish to trade places with me? Can you even imagine what it has been like? It has been one hell of a job. But someone had to do it, and I guess I should consider it an honor that I was selected and that I have carried it off, so to speak, to this day. And at long last I am to be recognized for everything that has been through me. Now, that doesn’t sound like best usage, does it? It should read “for every thing that I have been through”. But I am a colon and allowed to take some literary license.

I have been on the job, as it were, lo these past sixty-five years. If these walls could talk…. Well, these walls are about to talk. My experiences in that interim have qualified me to make the statements and share the perspectives that are here presented. And well might you ask, what could be the perspective of a colon. That in itself is an evolving issue.

In my youth I spent/wasted a great deal of time resentful that I had not been a brain or a palate or a mouth or a heart or – wouldn’t it have been grand – a penis. If one believed in the reincarnation of colons, then perhaps I might hope to be one of those in some other life. Could I perhaps have actually been one in an earlier life, and then been relegated to being a colon for some misdeeds? Viewed in another dimension, I firmly believe in a merciful creator, and in furtherance of that conviction, am convinced that I shall not be held accountable for that which the person in whose body I have been placed may have done. I believe that it would represent the highest degree of arbitrary injustice for any of us to have to suffer in the hereafter because we might have been the colon of Richard Nixon or worse. Muldoon is neither the best nor the worst of men, neither the greatest nor the smallest. I am sure and certain in the ultimate equitable judgment that will be rendered in my own instance. To the extent that I have served well in this life, I can hope for a better life in the hereafter. There isn’t much downside risk, is there?

What has brought me to memorialize these thoughts and revelations is the fact that I am to be featured in a solo performance colonoscopic review. Seamus has neglected these sixty-five years to have any survey of my condition, assuming as he has with everything else, that God has endowed him with immunity from ill effects of his excesses. As he has heretofore been correct in that assumption, why then is there to be a feature film about me? He has no symptoms. His colonic experiences continue to be punctual and generous, veritable peristaltic tsunamis. But he has a new doctor. And his daughter is now a doctor. And so there are now people nagging him to find out what might be the condition of his bowels. Bowels – horrid word that! According to the current medical theories, one must inspect that which can be inspected for the purpose of catching any incipient malady that might there develop if left undiscovered. And so, some deprived of aesthetic opportunity physician will insert a lengthy device up through Seamus’ rectum, examining as he goes the walls of meself, snipping off any incipient mischief in the process. Can you imagine what sort of personality specializes in matters colo-rectal? One might well suspect that the endodscopically enthused probably came from circumstances of privation. Surely the curator of the Metropolitan Museum, for example, would never choose to become a coal miner. The sensory deprivation would suffocate totally. The coal miner had no prior life experiences in aesthetic beauty. Similarly, the proctologist by and large is the product of third world cultures, isolated from any save a marginal existence – scratching for sustenance in misery. Only such a person could be content with a professional career of examining and repairing rectums and bowels. One might readily appreciate that they represent a market for very strong smelling cheeses. With luck it will be a completely passive tour with nothing to snip. In such event, Seamus will see the report as confirmation of his belief that he is invincible, and I shall continue to enjoy/experience the detritus of his adventures in gastronomy.

It has been said publicly that Seamus has the constitution of a draft horse. His stomach, liver and kidneys have the technological capabilities of an atomic pile. He could metabolize a truck.  I can personally attest to that. Over these many years, I have networked relationships with his other organs that are involved in his gastronomic explorations, such that I now have some understanding of what occurs other than being simply the conduit of the ultimate leftovers to the nether world. I should have worked to establish and enhance these relationships with organs farther up the process chain at a much earlier time. I missed many years of excellent and cordial relations by being isolationist and resentful of his mouth, his throat, his olfactory senses, et cetera.   Now they share with me what it is like for them when Seamus dines or sips or engages in intimacy. Almost everything has been improved in terms of the quality of my emotional well being since establishing a society with those who share with me the distributed system of Himself. The only negative that I can confirm, now that I understand things from a more catholic perspective, is that it is true in all aspects of life that the scenery only changes for the lead dog.

 On a functional level, I am grateful to Muldoon for making my job as easy as possible. He occasionally goes off the deep end, especially on long motorcycle trips. On such occasions, he will live on bacon cheeseburgers, fried potatoes, sausages, fried potatoes, fried shrimp and fried fish, fried potatoes, pork barbeque, fried potatoes, all thankfully followed by copious amounts of cold beer. Those trips are really tough. They are especially tough on his buttocks. In some of my conversations with his buttocks, the description of the beatings taken with ten to twelve hours on a motorcycle seat, all day long – followed by another three or four on a bar stool- the description of the agony and muscle cramps is really brutal. His buttocks are probably the hardest in the world.  Speaking of his buttocks, he is frequently heard to say that you can’t drive a spike with a tack hammer. I don’t have it as hard as his butt does. When he is not on a long bike trip, and especially since all his biker friends died, he is on a Mediterranean diet of vegetables, a moderate amount of cheese, lots of olive oil, seafood, meats of infinite variety,  and almost no beer – only wine. Younger lawyers who travel with him on cases around the country, who are not at all accustomed to living it his intense level, have written home that they are throwing up the best food and wine they have ever had. It is, of course, a mistake for any novice to try to eat and drink as he does. The more intelligent among them will simply enjoy what they like at their own level and pace and not suffer for the experience. He, of course, is always up early and ready for anything at any moment on any kind of short notice. The youngsters, after an evening out with him, are lucky to show up at all the next day, and if they do, they usually aren’t worth a damn to anyone.

This epic throughput has been my lot these many years, and I have handled it with unbelievable resilience. Of course, by the time all this incredible gastronomy gets to me, it has been divested of everything worth having, and I am left to deal with what the body has not absorbed. The appreciation of what this provender has been like earlier on in the process has come to me second hand in my conversations with the organs associated with it pre stomach. Once it leaves the stomach and enters my domain, there is not even a scintilla of the glorious flavors and aromas associated with the material but a few hours earlier.

There is never a need for any kind of stomach settling medicament, no peristalsis stimulator needed. I know my job and I do it as it should be done. Duty has always been to me the most sublime word in the English language. If I were to have an escutcheon of my own, it would say, simply, Ich Diene.

 There have been moments of sheer terror. His dear friend Carol Dean’s mother always cared for him the very most of all her many admirers. Dean was simply an Americanization of their original name, Breszinsky, quite Polish. Carol’s mother would upon occasion make galumpkie, and Seamus was their favorite guest upon such occasions, because he could eat six or seven galumpkie without even a hint of discomfort. Her galumpkie were about the size of three golf balls wrapped in a cabbage leaf, with seasonings, breadcrumbs and mystery meat. This was served with noodles and red gravy of sorts.  Getting six or seven galumpkie into your system is an incredible feat of Homeric consumption. Getting them back out of the system is even more strenuous. Galumpkie are never served with any other vegetable except maybe potatoes. Polish people rarely eat vegetables unless they are pickled. Muldoon once cooked dinner for the entire Breszinsky family, and all the green vegetables were returned to the kitchen untouched. A cousin later told Muldoon that pigs eat vegetables and that they then eat the pigs. A galumpkie evacuation event can only be understood of you saw the movie “Krakatoa”. If you are too young to know about the eruption of Krakatoa, maybe you recall the Mount Saint Helens explosion.

Few people realize how many dimensions of colonic activity have existed in human history. First, consider the normal function of a colon. Then think a bit, if you will, about what societies have done with their undesirables. They have been sent to colonies – colonized – become colonials. When a place has become colonized, it has become the place to which countries send those who are no longer useful. How bloody appropriate, don’t you think. Humorously, when colonies later revolt and become independent, their later generations tend to revere those colonists who lead the revolt and “gave birth” to the new nation. In the USA there is even a society of Colonial Dames, ladies who fancy themselves a cut above others because their ancestors were once the detritus of some mother country or other. Genealogy freaks wallow in their status as remnants of that which once passed through the process of colonization. Of course, no one with even the slightest good manners would ever suggest to them that their exalted presumed positions are at least linguistically, as well as historically, linked to some national peristaltic process.

The grand opera house in Buenos Aires, Argentina is called Teatro Colon. But the music performed there is far from fecal in quality.

  Curiously, the Secretary of State of the United States is named Colon Bowel. When one considers positions he has taken in recent years, the name seems quite appropriate. He is used by the current administration as the fool. He is sent out to make appeasing statements to those who hate America. Appeasement never accomplishes anything, except to demonstrate that appeasement is foolishness in the first place. And in every instance he is treated with derision by those he sought to mollify. He is perfect for that role.

Which brings us to the event that inspired these musings. Himself has decided at age 65 to comply with the wishes of those who care about him and who worry that his outrageous lifestyle and years of excesses may have impaired his well-being. To be sure, he is of the unqualified opinion that nothing could possibly be amiss or amuck because he feels so good and is in such good spirits, emotionally and otherwise. He has secured the services of a proctologist who is to perform a colonoscopy for purposes of screening and the ruling out of things that could, if neglected, lead to malignant circumstances.

Like everything else he does or contemplates, this must be a subject of dramatic humor. He engaged his poor physician in a lengthy discussion, by way of example, about whether a lawyer can sufficiently purge himself of feces using the contents of only one colonoscopy prep kit. His physician is of the opinion that no lawyer can be purged of shit with only one kit. There was another lengthy bargaining session over Muldoon’s insistence that the doctor pay him a fee for this procedure. According to Muldoon’s economics, the value of hatred by doctors of the legal profession is such that any physician would gladly pay a fee for the pleasure of poking a long instrument up the arse of any lawyer. While he did not convince the doctor to pay him a fee, he did manage to get the doctor’s fee substantially reduced with that argument. He practiced dramatic readings of the instructions that came with the colonoscopy prep kit. That was really funny. He did readings in the styles of Peter Ustinov, Clint Eastwood, John Wayne, Sean Connery, Peter O’Toole and Sir John Guilgood. Every conversation he had during the week preceding the procedure was filled with innuendos. He proclaimed that the planet Uranus was named to honor Proctology and those who practice that speciality. He requested that President Bush proclaim July 22nd to be National Colonoscopy Day and have the proclamation read by Secretary of State Colon Bowel. He made a recording of the sounds that emanated from him when he was taking the bowel purging contents of the colonoscopy prep kit and thereafter whilst the effects of those materials were making themselves heard. This material he intends to have incorporated into a tone poem. He is organizing a musical group to be named The Fartistics.

At the appointed day and hour, he presented himself at the Endopoop Center for the Practice of Endoscopic tortures and then and there underwent the procedure. It took only about ten minutes, as there was not the slightest imperfection to be noted, remediated, resected, biopsied or reported. His remains, I am proud to say, the most exquisitely magnificent arrangement of conduit in the State of Texas. He promptly called all who might be concerned to brag and to place bets that his were the benchmark bowels to which everyone would forever aspire.

It is no wonder that I am so proud this day. I have for sixty-five years dealt with an admixture of substances that would long ago have carried off any normal mortal. Try as I might, I simply cannot bring myself to be modest on this occasion.

By Seamus Muldoon, Himself
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