My Gastrointestinal doctor came in to the exam room, shook my hand, and studied my charts for the latest test results. Then he muttered, “Huh” - never a good sign to start off a doctor’s visit, especially a visit to the Digestive and Endoscopy Center.

I suffer from Crohn’s disease, a chronic inflammation of the intestines. Chuck Terhark, Senior Editor for Metro Magazine refers to Crohn’s disease simply as, “Poopy Pants.” This, sadly, is not too far off.     My Crohn’s has taken a slight turn for the worse lately and I’m currently taking nine pills a day to relieve the discomfort. 

The doctor looked over at me and raised an eyebrow. Also, never a good sign. 

“If I could give you a super pill like Viagra to fix your colon I would,” the doctor said matter of factly. 

I’m confused. Why does my colon want an erection? Does my colon want to make love to the toilet?   

“I’m on nine pills a day,” I replied, “And I don’t feel any changes. I’m a tad bit concerned.”

The doctor looked at the stats on my chart again. He punched up my file on the computer.

“Well, Todd, with your age (37), size (5’7”), and weight (157 lbs.),” he said, “You are no longer a Lamborghini. You’re a tug boat.”

Did you just call me Tug Boat Todd? If you did, that is like the greatest nickname ever. I just might have t-shirts made up.

“And the new medicine you’re currently on is slowly chugging through you like diesel fuel,” he said.

Hey, Doctor Reamer, get to the point: Am I going to need a colostomy bag any time soon?  Because if so, I’d like some time to prepare the whole “Hey, honey, I’m now pooping in a bag” conversation I will be having with my wife.

“I try to eat right,” I confessed sheepishly. “I eat fruit every day.”

“Sorry to say, but the food you eat really doesn’t have that much to do with the disease in your stomach,” the doctor reiterated.

So, if that’s the case, I can pound some Shorty and Wags wings for an appetizer, polish off an entire Heggies’s pizza at Al’s Bar, treat myself to a Blizzard afterwards, and crap my pants in my car on the drive home? Maybe do a couple of rails of cocaine while I’m at it?

“Let’s stay the course,” the doctor said encouragingly. He held out his hand and pumped it slowly, imitating the slow chugging of a tug boat. “Let the new medicine work through you for a few more months.” Pause. “But we’ll have to monitor your blood to make sure the new medicine isn’t, you know, destroying your liver.”

Do you think you could just go ahead and take my testicles off right now? Because if I’m hearing what I think I’m hearing, in my near future I may not have an anus or a liver. There isn’t enough sympathy love in the world to make that situation sexy.

“I’m a tug boat,” I said jokingly. “And who doesn’t love a tug boat?”