You havin’ a BM in thar?

I’ve always envied Timber’s and Daddy’s metabolisms. They can inhale exorbitant quantities of food with no physical consequences. Daddy’s stomach admittedly has expanded after his recent inhalation of hot dogs, bologna sandwiches and Snickers bars, but from behind he still looks slim. This past Saturday morning, I stumbled into the kitchen and poured a cup of coffee, hoping it would relieve some of my post-Birthday bloat. In the midst of Daddy’s and my conversation and caffeine sippage, I blurted, “Ooo, I feel like I’m gonna go. Just a minute!”

“That’s what we call a BM!!!” he hollered while I ran to the restroom.

Daddy started using that acronym my sophomore year of high school, when my laxative addiction had peaked. Even though a box of raisins or a peanut buttered rice cake comprised an entire day’s menu, I downed half a box of Correctol every night. My body not only had become immune to the suggested dosage of two pills but also eventually stopped responding every time I increased the amount. Plus, my body didn’t have much to purge in the first place. Every morning around 5:30 I woke up, sprinted to the toilet and sprayed liquid from my butt. Daddy sat in the computer room a couple doors down checking his stocks and could hear everything, from the screeching bifold bathroom door to the sound of a spewing firehose.

“You havin’ a BM in thar?!” he screamed.

“Yeah…” I blushed, by that point collapsed in the floor with cramps.

Daddy brought me a Fleet Enema one evening after he got home from work. “I gotchya an enema today. Here,” he said, dropping the box on the hardwood floor in my room. “That’ll getchya goin’.”

“What?” I asked, looking up from a half-written crappy poem.

“Just follow the instructions,” Daddy said while walking away. “Hello world!”

Once Daddy vanished, I turned over the package and read more about this product I amazingly never had heard of before. It looked like a Barbie bazooka.

“I’m gonna do it now!” I yelled to Daddy, across the hall in the computer room.

“All right!!!”

I closed the door and held the brass knob while removing my bottom half’s garments. I lowered myself against the foot of the bed, rolled onto all fours and pointed my butt skyward, forming a teepee with my body. Feeling around with caution, I finally inserted the enema.

“You get it in thar yet?” Daddy inquired.

“Yeah!” I struggled.

“Good luck holdin’ it in thar!”

“Thanks. Ugh, it already hurts!”

While I wallowed in the floor, my cat Lily pawed open the door; the latch didn’t catch when I thought I had closed it. Butt facing the hallway, I twisted in agony, empty enema rolling around my feet. Lily purred and slid against my shins.

Suddenly I felt like my butt would implode. Lunging through the doorjamb, I whipped my head left and right to assess any family foot traffic.

“Everybody watch out!” I screamed. “I don’t have any pants on!!!”

“Good. Gawd,” Daddy muttered from the computer chair.

“Yer so gross!” Timber shouted from her room.

I took two diagonal leaps to the toilet. The firehose sprayed full-blast before my cheeks even hit the seat.

“Didja go?!” Daddy hollered once the noise had ceased.

“Not really,” I sighed. “Just a little roughage.”

“Well thar ya go!”

As I already have mentioned, Daddy’s long-term memory remains for now. I’ll visit home again Easter weekend. While I’m there I guess I’ll celebrate the resurrection of Jesus and Daddy’s revival of the acronym BM.