Enema in my mouth

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As a child, I was always proud to still have my tonsils. Especially since they were naturally oversized and shocked every doctor who saw them. And especially because my siblings didn't have theirs. Nyaa!

In high school, in my medical terminology class, I learned a bit more about tonsils and how they are sort of the immune system's advance scouts, looking for diseases Theric may foolishly be ingesting. Go tonsils!

The one downer to my tonsils has always been that they get sore and pus-filled and this seems to make me sick.

Shortly after getting married, I finally figured out that it wasn't pus down there, it was food, caught in the cavernous pores of my tonsils.

I saw an earnoseandthroat doctor about my tonsils last week to ask for help in getting my tonsils cleaned up.

He took a look down my throat, tchtched, and said those were some mighty big pores down there.

It ends up everyone's tonsils are porous, but some people's tonsil pores are little, like on the palm of their hand, and other people, like me, have crypts. Yes, crypts. That's what they're called, crypts. So when I'm swallowing food and it's being pressed past my tonsils--the TSA of my temple--chunks of hippie food are setting up camp in my crypts and festering and making me sick.

Stupid hippies.

Anyway, the good doctor had some advice for me, viz, to go to the pharmacy and buy an enema bag with a longish hose and wash my tonsils morning and night for the rest of my life.

So I went to the pharmacy. Then another. Then another. Then another.

At each of these pharmacies, all that was in stock, in the enema section, were single-serving-size enema squirt bottles. When I talked to the pharmacists about my needs, they looked at me like I--or, more accurately, my doctor--was insane. Wasn't I worried about asphyxiating myself? Drowning? Dying???

Well, yeah, but a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do. Y'know?

Finally I asked the last pharmacist where I should look next. He recommended the locally owned Burn's Pharmacy.

This pharmacist also considered selling me a straightjacket instead, but had what I needed, namely a hot water bottle with a long hose and various, frightening, white plastic attachments designed to hook into rectums, vaginas and other generally plastic-nozzle-free environments.

I use none of these attachments.

But I do hose down my throat morning and night with a minimum of death.

Results:

• My wife says I smell better.
• My doctor says I already show vast improvement.
• A lifetime of happiness free of feces-smelling cheese-curd-looking food particles hopping onto my tongue at inopportune moments (so far).

Seems worth a little life-threatening hygiene, wouldn't you agree?