MoviPrep Sebastian Vettel Exhaust

MoviPrep Sebastian Vettel exhaust relates what happens in most of our lives at least once but my, it's just a little disconcerting.

Incidentally you don't want to take too many pickled beets if you suffer from constipation. It can act a bit like some stuff called Movi-Prep; but just the right amount every day might sort out your problem.

This page was last updated by Bernard Preston on 6th January, 2023.

About a year ago, I had a serious oops for about a month. At every visit to the loo there was an unnerving warm feeling accompanying the stool. One look, and my heart sank.

Hearing a splash I looked down again, expecting to find my bleeding heart down there. Something was pumping bright-red blood into the toilet in a most disconcerting manner.

I tried hard for several weeks to pretend that all was well, this too will pass, but she who must be obeyed somehow found out. I learnt that little lesson many years back. She is also known as she who knows everything. Any cute little affair was out of the question. So too my leaking heart, or whatever organ is was that was turning the toilet-bowl, and my underwear apparently, the colour of pickled beets.

Finally she called my friend Graham, a gastro man, to make an appointment. Between them they coerced me with various threats of imminent death if I did nothing. If not from a gastric-bleed, then by my wife's own hand. Both were a distinct possibility.

Graham started, as they do, with something called a history. Apparently the right diagnosis is usually made without lifting a finger; just from your story.

What he didn't like was at least two or three nights a week I would have to sleep sitting bolt upright until two in the morning with a serious belly-ache, so he surreptitiously did lift the finger. Without even asking my permission. 

That next step really caught me by surprise. "Lie on your side, knees up and pants down," and the bastard actually reamed me. He didn't lift his finger, he inserted the damn thing; the invasions of privacy you let your doctor get away with. It was only at that moment that it finally dawned on me why I could never be gay. For the life of me, I dunno how those guys manage it. Fancy going through that every Friday evening.

Then Graham presented a full colour diagram of my alimentary canal. After muttering something about a Barrett's oesophagus and tracing the passage that blood follows from your heart to your anus, with various stop off places with names like sphincter and the twelve-finger organ. That one really worried me. Was he suggesting that I was a perv and hid my sex toys up there somewhere? Then my Dutch vocabulary kicked in; ah, that's what those coffee shop people call the duodenum.

Pseudo-naming is something those Hollanders have perfected; calling a dagga-den a coffee shop and naming the duodenum after a dildo.

You've really got to give it to those alimentary guys. They've taken the elementary sales pitch of secondhand car salesmen to staggering new heights. With an absolutely straight face, Graham described how he was going to make one journey, entering via the mouth to the centre of the earth, down like you would do at Gold Reefs' number-one mineshaft; and the other, using a two hundred metre firehose, via another aperture located somewhere in Australia, up a coalmine until the tubes met in some place called Newcastle, or whatever. Then having figured out where my heart was bleeding, he would know exactly what to do.

I wouldn't feel a thing, and it probably would not be painful unless that guy Barrett had defecated.

Or was the word defect? In which case I might wake up with a C-bag that would be dangling somewhere down near my other S sac.

I left feeling quite nauseous. Graham was going to descend with one tube, rise up with another, perhaps insert a little hole and fit a bag that looked something like a giant condom. It wouldn't hurt much, other than my dignity, but I might have to mortgage my house to pay the bill. This fascination with orifices gets me, and I even knew Graham was a happily married man; to a woman, I mean.

I left his clinic with a list of do's and do nots, and a scrip for two small bags of muti called MoviPrep which, to justify the price I suppose, came in a carton big enough to hold a TV. That stuff in the wrong hands could be used to subdue a whole nation. Actually the Brits used it very successfully to conquer those pesty Boers about a hundred years ago; the result was a stream they named "onderbroek spruit." 

During the first Boer War, to capture an elusive band of farmers who were causing some mayhem when the redcoats tried to drive them off their own land, the Poms placed a precursor of Moviprep in the watering hole where they knew that band of terrorists, or freedom-fighters, depending on whose side you are used to gather; they were soon captured with their pants down at Onderbroek Spruit; underpants creek. It was well named later in memory of that tragic-affair.

The next day I couldn't think straight. If one finger could cause such indignity, my mind kept dwelling on what it would be like to have all twelve of his fingers examining my intestines. I mean, is that not how Medicine names the parts. The oesophagus after Barrett, and the duodenum after a perv Dutchman called Dr Twelve-Fingers; some sort of monster.

Finally the day arrived when I had to start making my preparation for the day. No solid food or fibre, nothing but jelly and chicken bouillon. Now that broth I'm familiar with. She who must be obeyed makes it every week to keep her arthritis under control. Some quack at a place called Harvard said it is better than anti-inflammatory drugs and she, poor woman, believes him. Some wag wrote to me describing that bouillon as tasting like river water.

But when you're faced with only a glass of MoviPrep for the next thirty-six hours it was, sigh, a God-send.

By nightfall I was starving. Fortunately it made the next twelve hours easier. My hand shaking, I mixed those two little packets of innocuous looking white powder in a litre of luke-warm water, unable not to make an association between TV boxes and Graham peering up my rear end, and watching the result on the video screen.

If you live in one of the countries that have no clue about what a litre of MoviPrep is, taken sip by bloody awful mouthful, it seems something like ten imperial gallons. Speaking of that, I suppose Americans are so good at mathematics because they are forever practising dividing by three and eight and 5280. I find arithmetic with ten and 1,000 quite difficult enough.

It is impossible to drink that litre any other way than a teaspoon at a time. Even that from the river tasted better. With a couple of drops of artificial citrus mixed in it still makes me feel nauseous every morning when she who must be obeyed starts the day with warm water and a squeeze of fresh lemon. Also courtesy of Harvard Med-school, I suppose. I'll stick with coffee.

The instructions say that nausea is possible, but vomiting is a not allowed; keep it down. Ugh. Then they go on to say that a watery-stool is to be expected.

What they don't tell you is that it arrives with the full force of a Sebastian Vettel exhaust; some watery stool. A rocket engine with you being propelled forwards by the force of that spew. Every action has another that is equal and opposite. Newton, I believe. I wrote the next day to the manufacturers of MoviPrep suggesting that they include a safety-belt in the TV box. I decided to instead use the Mulligan strap that I use for the treatment of hip arthritis to keep me well anchored down to the toilet.

That toilet is where you spend most of the next few hours. And then, when it feels as though your bowel must be squeaky clean, you have to swallow another ten imperial gallons of that lemon-flavoured river water. It's then that you realise that the fun has only just begun; and you could not be further from a Carpenters' concert.

You get the drift. I was tempted to add a couple tots to that ugly stuff to make up a G&T with a splash of lemon, but sanity prevailed. I didn't want to take a tumble on the way to the toilet, before I had time to fit the Mulligan belt whilst I was in full Sebastian Vettel mode. 

The good wife, with reason it turned out, said I was only welcome in the boudoir if she could first lay down a rubber sheet borrowed from the grandchildren. Woman's inhumanity to man. She knew she was quite safe, and there would be absolutely no need to apply the hot tongue and cold shoulder that night. I fell into an uneasy, troubled sleep, dreading Graham's twelve fingers examining my heart for any possible leaks.

Periodically I would make a heroic dash to the toilet, appreciative of the towels that lined the carpet from my side of the bed to to the loo. In our home the rule is "you make a mess, you clean it." In the morning, I must say she was ever so kind. She took them all, the bedding and my pyjamas to the washing-machine.

Then that day finally arrived. Son in-law drove me to the hospital, grinning periodically from ear to the other. "What's so funny?" I snarled. Luckily Helen had supplied me with a couple towels to sit on and a change of clothing. That moviprep is just pure epsom salts with a dash of foul-tasting artificial lemon flavour. You know, that stuff that poor under privileged cooks have to use who don't have citrus trees growing in the garden.

I leapt from the car, bag in hand, leaving son in-law to deal with the towels, and without looking back; serves him right. At the front desk of the hospital I first had to make a deposit of three-months' wages and fill in umpteen forms giving Graham full right to remove my bleeding heart, stab me in the belly and fit a pouch and do whatever else surgeons need to do.

Then there was that pretty nurse who told me to strip down to the altogether and put on a gown. She kept staring, wondering if for the first time she might find a man whose appendage hadn't shrunk to the size of his pinkie at the thought of what was imminent, I suppose. I could see she was disappointed. Just everybody was being diabolical, and I knew that the worst was still to come. Graham was surely the chief villain of the piece. 

Then mercifully the next five minutes passed in a blur. The waiting room was full of people looking just as green about the gills as I felt. They obviously wanted us in and out, a veritable sausage-machine. A nurse put a needle into a vein in my forearm, Graham greeted me from behind a mask; what, did he think he might catch a nasty virus from me? It was only later that I realised, it was to protect him from any last effects of the river water and lemon juice.

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"This won't hurt; just a little prick." I gripped my hands together, I'm sure the knuckles were white, waiting for Graham to fit the fifty metre fire-hose.

I dawdled and waited, and, giving a little shake of the head, I must surely have been hallucinating, but the pretty nurse was saying, "it's all over, you can get dressed now." This time she did not stare.

I had just put my rods on when Graham swung by. I could see he was upbeat. "Make an appointment to see me in my rooms next week, Bernie. But the long and the short of it, is that there's nothing to worry about. Oh, other than your stomach smelt like a brewery with just a tinge of lemon. We had better talk about that."

Apparently my heart and colon had passed with flying colors. The rectum had a small varicosity, but it had already healed. If it leaked again, Grahams said he might have to fit some barbed wire up my rearend, but it was unlikely.

But I would have to quit drinking, it was seriously affecting my stomach and oesophagus. 

Beer makes a good servant but ...

This spicy ginger tea recipe is a good alternative, and perhaps even better proof that God loves us and wants up to be not only happy, but well too.

On the subject of Colonoscopies, here are a few gags.

1. "Please go easy, Doc. You're venturing where no man or woman has ever gone before!"

2. "Have you found Sebastian Vettel yet?"

3. "If you turned your hearing aid up, you'd hear me."

4. "Have you found what you're looking for? Did you see the dildo? Can you see the firehose with the gastroscope?"

5. "You know, doc, under Nebraska law, we'd be legally married now."

6. "Met any of my friends up there, doc?"

7. "You put your right hand in, you take your RH out."

8. "You got a glove on, doc?"

9. "If your hand does not fit, please don't go on trying! If at first you do not succeed, keep working at it does not apply on Fridays."

10. "Hey Doc, let me know if you found my indignity."

11. "Phew, do gays go through this half a dozen times every weekend?'"

12. "When you're done would you scribble a letter for my wife that you never found my head up there?"

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