Detox Horror Story

I feel supremely crappy lately, mostly due to my hard livin' ;) Between my lack of sleep and cookie addiction, I feel like I am rotting from the inside out. So, I have decided to do something I swore I'd never do: I'm going raw. I remember how much I used to mock all those pasty raw-food people, but I dammit, I want a healthy glow! I want intestines that are clean and shiny! And I want to feel superior to all you people out there cooking their food like...well, like normal people. The last time I went through a hard-core detox was four years ago, before I moved to Boston. I spent several days drinking nothing butlemon and water; I was starving but pretty. My skin looked AMAZING. I decided to take it to the next level and schedule a colonic.

I found some guy on the internet (note: if you are hiring someone to put a tube up your ass, try to be more discerning than "some guy on the internet") and gave him a call. He gave me very detailed directions to his office, which I found a bit strange since I was imagining a large medical building. Nevertheless, I scheduled an appointment and spent the next two days fantasizing about the giant mound of sludge that would soon be leaving my system.

When I drove to his office, I understood why his directions had been so explicit. His "office" was his house, a large ranch in the middle of suburbia. As I stood on his doorstep, I considered leaving. It was one thing to have someone clean me out in a medical setting; it was quite another to have it done by a guy who took poor care of his lawn and had a cheesy anthem as his doorbell ring. Before I could deliberate further, my future sodomizer opened the door.

He was maybe forty, and maybe high. He seemed friendly enough, but completely spaced out. As he brought me down to his basement (!), I wondered if I'd ever see the sunlight again.

When we reached the bottom of the stairs, his "office" was revealed: next to the washer and dryer was a long folding table covered by a towel. There was a contraption filled with tubes and wires attached to a large plastic container of water, and one larger clear tube was taped to the wall so that the contents flowing through would be visible. It looked like a mad scientist's wet dream. Across from the table, Oprah was blaring on a giant television sitting on the concrete floor.

He handed me a small towel, pointed me to the "changing room" (garage), and told me to undress. I wanted to go so badly, but I was bothered by the idea of being rude than the thought of being murdered. I took off my pants and hoped for the best, despite being certain that this experience was going to end up on a website for shit-fetishists.

One thing about this guy-he was full of jokes. There is little in life more disconcerting than a stranger shooting water up your ass in his basement, regaling you with puns. At first I laughed to be polite, but soon I lay there silent. Silent and sad. And sadder still, when I realized that I was NOT full of shit, as I had been told since childhood. Nothing was coming out of me! In the tube where I had expected to see miles of residue from 30 years of digestion, there was only a yellowish hue and a few little bubbles. Oh, the disappointment!

After I paid my $75, this whole experience was topped off by an offer to trade services: "You know, I was about we work something out where you can give me acupuncture once a week, and then I'll clean you out once a week?" When I replied that I wasn't yet licensed, his response was, "That's ok, I'm not either!" At that point I simply smiled and backed up slowly toward the door.

Thinking back on this, my new raw-food detox plan doesn't seem so difficult anymore.