Who tells me about his ten-day cleanse
We’re friends with limits. You knew this, I thought. Oh, well. You know this now. Between best of friends like ourselves there isn’t much that goes without saying. We talk about everything, confide in each other, and look to one another for advice, but I am now drawing the line at your ten-day cleanse. I don’t even love my imaginary wife enough to have that hypothetical conversation.
The thing is that you are the one that brings it up. God forbid we’re at lunch, but proximity to food seems to bring your colon storming to the front of your mind. I was about to settle in to a sweet pile of stool-loosening fries chili-cheese fries with my Dodger Dog, and this was the moment you chimed in, “Oh, man! I forgot to tell you, I started this whole body cleanse thing like four days ago. You would not believe how good I feel.”
“Yeah, that’s great man, is that like a bunch of wheatgrass and shit, you pussy. hahaha.” Just as I am about to bite in to my relish, sauerkraut, mustard-topped dog…
“A bunch of stuff, but man you should see the stuff coming out of me! It’s like black and sticky and thick…” Fuck. Well, I really wanted to eat that fucking Dodger Dog….wait, sticky? What do you mean sticky? Are you taking the time to feel out the consiste…you know what, never mind.
I don’t want to hear a real conversation about your bowel movements frequency, consistency, color, smell, and I sure as fuck don’t want to hear you go on and on about how you feel so much healthier, fresher, lighter, etc. You go on about the nine million gallons of green liquid you drink every day, the equivalent of an intestinal roto-rooter which is making you feel ten years younger.
You start pushing it on me, now. It’s a little nudge at first. Just that you wish I could feel this good. Maybe you drop in the point that you used to eat like “that” every-fucking-time I eat for ten damned days. As you are near the end of you ten-day colon power-washing you say you’d do it again, and it would be better with a partner this time. You don’t know what it will be like to be able to eat whatever you want again. You start imagining with me all the things you want to eat, while I am eating one of those very things. Then you say it would make you feel so bad…
I get it, you think your insides are now superior to mine. Fuck you, I don’t care about the resale value of my colon. I don’t care if a tract of my intestines is listed as a “fixer-upper” on the transplant list. I don’t give a shit if they cut open my stomach after my death and find a damned license plate in me like I’m Jaws or something. Whatever it is yes I’ll eat some, dammit.
Your colon, your ego, and your waistband may thank you at the end of your ten-days “on the cleanse,” but it is a cleanse friend, not a biblical rebirth or a time machine that let’s you take back that night of blow, unprotected sex with whores, and your twenty years of doing everything short of shivving a guy for the last slice of pizza. You are not superior to me because you’re eating like someone wired your jaw shut for a week and a half. Above all else, we might be friends, but I don’t care about your diet. If for some reason I ask you whether your stool is of a consistent color or hardness, then you have the right to punch me out and ask whether I’ve gotten my bran for the day over my unconscious body. Don’t herbal green teabag me.