Okay, so, early this morning, I went to the radiologist for a barium swallow. You may remember this from such posts as : “I drank chalk“. It is now almost 12 hours later, and it’s time for an update.
See, a barium swallow isn’t painful in any way. It’s a bit gross, because you drink radioactive chalk (which, in turn, gives you superpowers. I know this FOR A FACT*.) and drinking any kind of chalk is revolting (as you might remember from grade school, although not quite as revolting as drinking tempera paint, and more revolting than eating paste. Um. Unless you were a *very* different sort of child than I was. Or unless you weren’t in my class. I think I convinced just about everyone in my grade two class to drink the blue tempera paint just to see what our poop would look like. For the record, it looked blue.).
Now. I have the blessing of being a very *regular* person. Not “normal”, mind. *Regular*. I have never, in memory, ever been constipated. Ever. Not when I was pregnant, not after I’d given birth, not even after I ate paste in grade one. My mother and aunt and grandmothers and some of my friends have talked about it and have complained about it, but I never really understood.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph on a donkey, people. Is THIS what you go through? Bloating? Cramping? The feeling that you have a pound of radioactive frigging chalk sitting in your gut?
I was bitching about this on Twitter and asked why all y’all don’t just melt exlax (TM) in your coffee *all day long* if this is the case. It HURTS!
Then after complaining about the Barium Movement that has yet to happen (btw, The Barium Movement sounds like some shitty (heh) 70s band that consists of four dedicated players of pan pipes and some douche playing a saw), I apologized for all of the scatological comments.
Then something came to mind, after I’d mentioned that ‘scatological’ means ‘pertaining to the study of poop’ and not just ‘poop-related’. What occurred to me was this:
Who the hell decides to dedicate their life to studying poop? Do you wake up one morning in your second or third year of arts and sciences and say, “you know, I think I’d like to spend the rest of my life in poop.”? I know there are some really cool poops out there – owl pellets, f’rinstance. Coprolites, as another example.
And really, bless you for choosing to become a poopologist. Because there are some really important things to learn about animals and evolution and pathologies that you find out when you study poop. But…
I mean, okay. Say you’re at a dinner party, and you’re passing the mashed potates to the person on your right, and someone asks what field of study you’re in? Do you have a moment of panic and think “oh God. It’s the Jamieson Christmas party of ’97 all over again”, because at that party, when you answered the question the whole room went silent and no one would shake your hand afterward? *I* assume that all good scientists and researchers wash their hands thoroughly and regularly, but do you get Those Looks? And have your inlaws mentioned in not-quite stage whispers that your spouse *could* have married a dentist?
Is there a social support group for scatologists? Do we need to start one?
Maybe just a shirt that says “Poop Scientists Need Hugs Too”?
If I were going to become a scatologist, I would insist that my Degree said: “Doctor of Poop”.
Probably this is where I start getting hate mail from scatologists. I wonder what they leave in paper bags on your doorstep when they’re cross with you. Actually, that’s a rhetorical question. I don’t *really* wonder that at all.
Because when I become a mutant superhero, my superpower will be the ability to defecate at range, at will. My cape will be made of toilet tissue and I shall be called The Poopulator.