This is a follow on article to my earlier work, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF SEAMUS MULDOON’S COLON. I suspect that some of the more braggadocio statements made in that article could have been taken with a grain of salt even though I always speak ex cathedra whenever I address serious issues of well being. To that end, therefore, I have decided to update that earlier work so that you may be further enlightened regarding the many benefits of managing your own bowels somewhat as I manage mine. I recognize than many of you are somewhat limited by personality, “culture”, attitude, personal habits, religious preference, genetics and the several other influences that lead so many of you to malignancies of the digestive system. These tendencies may inhibit your drive to emulate me in this matter, and that is simply your own fucking bad luck. I am not responsible for your limitations.
As noted in the earlier article, Muldoon’s are the benchmark bowels of human creation. Muldoon’s bowels were given to Muldoon by God Almighty Her Own Self with the divine prescience that they would be tested well beyond any reasonable human expectations and would never fail – or so the design specifications proclaimed. Yours are probably not to that spec, but you should try to follow this regimen anyway – as much as you can – because you will at least always know how you are doing compared to the Muldoonian benchmark. One day medical practitioners will adopt the Muldoonian benchmark as their publicly acknowledged standard. They would have done so long ago, but they remain pissed off that Muldoon ignores so much of what they prescribe without the slightest adverse symptoms. Their mantra is that one must live a life other than the Muldoonian mean in order to enjoy good health in one’s dotage. They hate it that Muldoon has proved them wrong so dramatically. But until that day, you will have to provide your internist physician with copies of these two articles in order for them to understand the dimensions of proper bowels management. Your physicians annually request that you smear some of your feces on a stick or other medium and provide it to them for analysis. I used to buy them a greeting card suggesting that the envelope contained some celebratory material – say a Valentine card – and put the shit stick in there with the greeting. You could provide your croaker with copies of these two articles in a somewhat larger envelope along with your specimen.
The proctologists amongst us advocate a diet of highly laxative content. Their entire focus in life is peristalsis. Stewed fruits, stool softeners, copious liquids hopefully containing dissolved fibre, constant preoccupation with fear of constipation, polyps, pre cancerous lesions, fecal impactions and gastroenterological epizutics. They are in the main of recent European descent and extremely anal retentive by nature, culture and heritage. They and their minions live in a hemoroidal fixation, expecting daily bowel movement inhibiting inflammation of their nether regions. Their days are spent in apprehension that they will not have a bowel movement, and many of them have precomposed prayers of thanksgiving for immediate recitation should they actually take a crap. If they are lucky, they may cut loose once or twice a week. The event is memorable for its relief of stress, its pain, its odors, its noises and its providing a subject for social discussion amongst their peristaltically challenged circle of acquaintances.
The family that adopted me - may God compensate them for that mistake - were all totally and acutely anal compulsive. Constipation must, amongst them, have been some sort of double recessive disorder born of inbreeding, as all of them suffered terribly from it. They and their friends and relatives discussed it openly and frequently at social occasions. They literally lived on Phillips Milk of Magnesia, prune juice and stewed fruit. Every morning they had bowel stimulation rituals consisting of laxatives, stool softeners, hot tea or coffee, prune juice, stewed fruit and walking constantly around the house “working up” a bowel movement. The day could not start without that ritual, which more often than not failed to produce the prayed for peristaltic tsunami. One particular aunt, when visiting, occupied the other bedroom that adjoined the bathroom associated with my bedroom. I recall being awakened one morning by her moans, grunts and heavy breathing/gasping, followed by an explosive sound of half flatulence and half bowel movement and a post orgasmic expression of gratitude such that I might have thought her and her husband to be having sex in there until the effluvia emanated from under the common door. I recalled that her husband had once commented that while some women had orgasms, Gertrude had bowel movements. I pulled the covers and the pillow over my head to escape the smell and cover my hysterical laughter.
Muldoonians, on the other hand, never have a moment’s anticipation of colonic stress or dysfunction. Moreover, Muldoonians eat whatever they like, no matter its fat content or other formally questionable characteristics. We just don’t eat it every day. If you regularly eat fruits and vegetables, olive oil and consume substantial volumes of liquids, including beer and wine, diet is usually not an issue. Steaks, burgers, pork (including bacon), French fries, fried chicken and fish and whatever else may be appealing is perfectly OK for any Muldoonian, consumed occasionally.
One of my more enjoyable moments is the occasion when I am in hospital getting something fixed – new shoulder, new neck, various titanium accoutrements as stiffeners for this or that (no, not penile implants). Invariably, hospitals use in-patient surgical customers as training fodder for interns and residents – largely beardless youths (except for the Semites, Greeks and Italians) with some training and no life experiences whatsoever. Some pasty faced blank page will approach bearing a clipboard and questionnaire, asking all sorts of intrusive questions, the answers to which send him into paroxysms of shock and disgust. Notable amongst these questions will be one concerning consumption of alcohol. No matter how much I may then elect to understate my consumption of God’s reward to the senior citizen, the sonofabitch will announce that it is too much. I always delight in telling the little bastard that it may well be too much for him, but it is not too much for me. He has come to believe that his MD degree entitles him to be addressed deferentially, and recoils in horror at the rejoinder. Thereupon I summarily dismiss the punk, who notes on his little form that I am a difficult patient. I know that my physicians have sent these little farts to me to get them tuned up to some of life’s many realities. I always get a laugh knowing that many of them married some very nice girl who is working to help them get through med school and residency, and who will find out that the little uppity bastards are screwing nurses whenever the opportunity presents itself. They will one day – when the wife is starting to look a bit ragged from her years of sacrifice – run off with some hot young nurse, leaving the wife to go get herself tuned up in surgery and physical training so that she can get back onto the market for used women. Life just isn’t fair if you are not truly Muldoonian. There probably are no Muldoonian doctors. Maybe that is a good thing. Doctors tend mainly to love themselves. Muldoonians are capable of more and better.
I am certain that there are no Muldoonian proctologists. There are probably some Muldoonian assholes, but every group has some of those. But working on/inside assholes is just not a Muldoonian kind of thing. Vaginas – yes – Rectums – No.
It seems there is a constant struggle in the human physical condition amongst those who are bowel fixated. People who think they want to have regular bowel movements are conflicted because they really don’t want to share their feces with the rest of the world. They secretly want to hoard them and carry them around wherever they go. They have some delusion that going about their daily projects weighed down with fecality imbues them with gravitas. In physical terms gravity is an influence related to mass. In polite parlance gravitas is thought of as positive. It connotes influence and credibility, reliability and trustworthiness, a reputation for accomplishment and of being someone who exercises authority. In reality gravitas is just a buzz word used by poseurs to express their view of themselves and of what they pretend to do.
Amongst the anal retentive, however, it connotes acute constipation. When you refer to someone of that ilk as being possessed of gravitas, people tend not to appreciate that you are having a good laugh at the expense of the bloated one. So they spend their lives conflicted and in pain, living with laxatives and anti reflux tablets, suffering eventually from ulcers, stomach cancer and Crone’s disease. Not being Muldoonians, they never know the joy of an eight piece box of spicy Popeye’s fried chicken and a six pack of cold beer. Nothing is a better bowel cleanser than that. Fuck fois gras and champagne. Beer and spicy fried chicken are God’s favorite food.
Muldoonian bowel management includes the enjoyment of symphonic flatulence. Flatulence – farting to real people – is not some horrible embarrassment to be feared and suppressed. Rather it is an art form and a social statement, to be enjoyed and deployed. Without saying a word in response to any unpleasantness, a Muldoonian can bring the unpleasantness to an abrupt end by the simple act of creating a methane dead zone – think of the British Petroleum methane dead zones in the Gulf of Mexico. Nothing can live in a Muldoonian dead zone, and all hostility abruptly ceases. If a Muldoonian wants to bring a relationship with a woman to an abrupt end, he just gives her a Dutch Oven. No relationship can survive a Muldoonian Dutch Oven, and the awful final discussions about not being meant for each other and the possibility of remaining social friends are obviated. In its thermonuclear modality, Muldoonians will enjoy KimChee and Chili prior to the event. Premeditated KimChee farts would kill Osama BinLardass his own self. Even someone accustomed to living in a camel shit infused environment could not survive a Muldoonian KimChee fart dead zone. I well remember annihilating an Air France hospitality room at JFK Airport with a Muldoonian chili fart. To this day I can still close my eyes and see the last look on the face of the Air France hospitality suite manager, that resentful glaring at someone whom they hate and admire at the same instant, as she struggled to pretend that she was not about to wretch. When you can slaughter even the French with your own personal methane dead zone, you are at Muldoonian homicidal capability. The French usually love anything that smells bad, but they cannot handle a Muldoonian chili fart. I heartily recommend the chili at the Air France terminal at JFK
By Seamus Muldoon, Himself
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