Constipation, with Easter Eggs

Note: My wife has recently shown an interest in reading my posts. I’m not sure if she’s serious, or if she’s just trying to flatter me. So I’m including “Easter eggs” in this post. These Easter eggs are little unrelated comments about her, interlarded hither and thither, designed to get her attention. If she mentions one to me, then I’ll know she actually read my post.

I want to discuss a serious, and very personal issue. Constipation. The older we get, the more costive our bowels become. So those of us in our dotage find ourselves doting on this gut-wrenching subject from morning ’til night. We cogitate over when our last movement occurred, and speculate over the date and time of the next. In fact at the Senior Citizens Center, we sometimes enter betting pools over the issue.

My wife has the strangest, but most beautiful, purple eyes.

Constipation is usually asymptomatic. It’s sneaky like that. Those of us with serious memory problems may not even be aware that we have this condition. What condition? I don’t know. Ummm . . .

Oh yes, slow bowels. I’ve learned to use memory aids to monitor my regularity, or lack thereof. My favorite memory aid is a calendar. At the end of each day, I mark my calendar with a big black “X.” But when I’m lucky enough to experience the excitement of evacuation, I mark that day with a big RED “X.” That’s because those are truly red letter days for me.

My wife doesn’t know this, but today I emptied our bank account. Tomorrow I’ll be in Brazil.

Constipation is usually painless, except at the exact time you recover from it. Then it rises to the level of childbirth pain. But there’s more to it than just physical pain. Irregular bowel movements can also cause a great deal of mental pain.

If I can get just one of my wives to read my posts, maybe the other four will also give it a try.

For instance, there’s the constant mental anxiety from wondering exactly how stuffed your body will become before something gives way and explodes. There’s also the shame that arises when you fail to live up to good toilet ethics. After all, when you tie up the facilities for hours, yet produce nothing, you begin to feel guilty, as if you’ve let society down. And if you’re one of those types that flushes a non-soiled toilet just to fool people into thinking you actually were productive, you become saddled with guilt over your dishonesty. Not to mention the shame over your water-wasting habits.

I won’t complain about my wife’s cooking, but I will say that my dog sits next to me at dinnertime for good reason.

Constipation preoccupies the minds of us old folks, and distracts us from vitally important issues. Instead of devoting our vast elderly experience and wisdom to saving the world, we expend our mental energy pondering the perplexities of peristalsis and borborygmus.

When my wife asked me what my favorite song was, I wanted to say, Silence is Golden, but couldn’t get in a word edgewise.

However constipation does have one redeeming factor. It has inspired the following poem, which is one of the most popular poems in the history of literature and bathroom stall epigrams:

Here I sit,
Broken-hearted,
Tried to shit,
And only farted.

April Fool’s, my dear wife! I love you.

And Happy Easter, everyone!

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