I know you are all on virtual tenterhooks about the state of my colon, so here is the report:
As I was lying on the skinny hospital bed on wheels, slowly rising out of the anesthesia, my brain in blackest smog, the curtain parted and in floated the angel of the Lord. I knew who it was, right off. Imagine Merle Oberon in 1939, in Wuthering Heights. Radiant vestments, tasteful wings, a glowing golden aura bleeding into pumpkin coloured spires -- what you would expect if you were a shepherd guarding your flocks by night, but something of a surprise in a Wyoming recovery room.
The angel saith (in a New Orleans accent): "Your doctor messed up. He ripped you a new anal cavity."
I was stunned, poleaxed from whatever they'd used to knock me cold, so I kept my mouth shut. Besides, I'm kind of shy around angels when the backside of my gown isn't tied shut.
"Lucky for you, though," saith the angel. "God has decided to present you with a new asshole. For Christmas."
The angel reached into the depths between her breasts and pulled out a black, lacquer box with a golden clasp in the shape of a map of Oklahoma. A key appeared, as if from heaven, and she opened the box to show me a royal blue Velveteen lining in which were set five brand new anuses. Anii. Whatever angels call bottoms.
"Which would you chooseth?" saith the angel.
I know what you guys are thinking. You're thinking I was hallucinating from the drugs and the thrill of having a tiny camera and flashlight snaked up my butt. (I have full colour, glossy photos of the dark chamber that we will put on the website, as soon as we can figure out how. You may now start holding your breath.) However, I am fairly certain that the angel was real. She had on flip flops. Hallucinated angels never wear flip flops.
The new anuses were nice, if you like that sort of thing, but the sizes were weird -- frighteningly small or absurdly large. Six different shapes, from the vertical crack with a pencil piercing to an asterisk like Kurt Vonnegut drew in Breakfast of Champions. There was also a cross, like cartoonists draw eyes on people who have been knocked silly. And a curl, like a seashell or galaxy. There was another one but it didn't look like anything but a bull's eye.
"Are these the only choices?" I asked.
"Of course not," saith the angel. "God has created an infinite number of assholes in this world. Just look at Facebook."
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