copyright by Morgan McFinn
o you realize that approximately ninety percent of all human illness results from damaged colons?"
Of course I didn’t realize this, nor did I really give a damn. I'm healthy, fit as a fiddle, and ready for love. The only colon I’m familiar with is a punctuation mark. As one of my buddies in the Wrigley Field bleachers would say, "A colon has something to do with grammar . . . whatever that is."
Mention the word syntax to these fellows and you'll hear a fusillade of seditious rancor. "Damn politicians want to take all the fun out of life—more taxes on booze and cigarettes."
"Ought to hang all the bastards."
"Smoking cigarettes ain't a sin."
"Hell, no. And remember, Jesus’ blood is really wine. I know, I go to Mass every Sunday."
"Not very good wine, though. You notice that?"
"Well, what do you expect? The damn taxes are so high. Probably can't afford the good stuff."
Anyway, this subject of human illness and damaged colons hit the airwaves last Sunday afternoon while I was sitting at a bar called the Secret Garden. It's over on Big Buddha Beach.
Every Sunday from three till dusk they host a jam session made up of local musicians who feel like playing some jazz. It's generally a pretty cool gig, man. A happening, like . . . place to sort of, like . . . be.
I'd had a couple of beers and started talking with a girl who was drinking a glass of lime juice. She was beautiful. A Canadian girl named Alice. She had one of those glowing complexions—just radiating health.
Alice had been living on Koh Samui for over a year. She worked at a health spa on Lamai Beach.
She asked what I do here and I said, "Mostly I drink whiskey."
"Not a very healthy habit," she responded.
"I know, but I smoke a lot of cigarettes, too."
"Well, that's good. Destroy your lungs, as well as your liver. You should try to quit, although it must be difficult. Some say it’s even more difficult than kicking heroin.”
“Well, I wouldn’t know about that, but to quit smoking is easy.”
“You think so?”
“Sure. Hell, I quit smoking thirty or forty times a day. No problem.”
I liked this girl, and she really was gorgeous. I put my cigarette out, finished the beer, and ordered two glasses of lime juice.
"The colon’s your body's large intestine. Its function is to eliminate waste matter by means of bowel movements. Pure and simply, the colon’s the human body's sewage system. The problems occur when this waste matter doesn't pass through your system properly, but gets clogged up in the colon and begins to putrefy. What you've got then is not a sewage system, but a cesspool.
“The putrefaction process generates toxins. This toxic matter in the colon eventually calcifies into tumors which, left to fester, become cancerous tumors. Meanwhile, toxic gases spread throughout the rest of your body wreaking havoc upon the tissue of all major organs. Why are you smiling?"
"I was just thinking that when a man meets a girl in a bar he's usually the one who's talking shit . . . if you know what I mean."
"Sure, I know what you mean. I'm going to be forty years old. You're not the first man I've met in a bar."
"You're going to be forty years old? When . . . in about twelve years?"
"Ha! Now you're a man talking shit."
"No, honestly, I mean it."
"God. How many times I've heard a man use that expression."
"Really. Trust me."
"And, that one too. You guys all subscribe to a 'how to bullshit a broad from a barroom to a bedroom' service?’ I'm speaking about the shit, if you like, of the human digestive system. You're talking the shit of the human psyche."
"I'm . . ."
"Sorry. I know. Heard that one many times, as well. I'm sorry."
To myself I'm thinking, this girl . . . well . . . woman, I guess . . . is starting to sound like kind of a bitch. But damn it, she's a good looking bitch, so hang in there for a while longer.
What I did say was, "Tell me some more about the colon. Why does waste matter putrefy there?"
"Because of what you eat. Most people on Western diets eat a lot of bleached bread, white sugar, processed dairy products, and overcooked meats. There's no life in that diet. All the nutrients and enzymes have been killed off. It's dead food. You consume death, and death will consume you."
"Well, that's food for thought. What are enzymes?"
"Enzymes are the essence of all living cells. They’re responsible for every chemical reaction that takes place in the human body. All of our organs, tissues, and cells rely upon these enzymes for their nourishment. When the enzymes in the food we eat have been destroyed by cooking, pasteurization, canning, chemical additives, or microwaves . . . our bodies can’t adequately digest that food. So, it rots. Again, putrefaction of waste matter poisons the body."
"What happens then?"
"Then you get sick, man, and allopathic medicine comes to the rescue."
A scruffy looking character with cropped hair, ankle bracelets, and a nose ring decided to join the discussion….
"Allopathic medicine, man—the curse of twentieth-century health care," he said. "It's all about drugs and butchery. Pharmaceutical drugs alleviate pain; they don't cure disease. But that's part of the Western mind-set. Pain is bad, so let's dope it to sleep. The truth is that pain is the body's way of telling you that you've got a health problem. It's only a symptom of the problem. Drugs kill the pain, the illness lingers on."
"That's exactly right." Alice was impressed.
I was beginning to think that her affections were not going to be had for one pulp-cluttered glass of lime juice. I was about to suggest a tofu salad but she continued talking….
"The Western mindset regarding health is a very simple four step process. One, you feel sick; two, you go to a doctor; three, the doctor diagnoses the illness based on your symptoms and gives you some toxic drugs; and four, you submit to surgery—the butcher, glorified mechanic, cuts away part of your body.
“For example, if your main arteries are clogged up with shit, have bypass surgery. If your colon’s full of disease and all bent out of shape, remove it. If diabetic gangrene has blocked the blood supply to your feet, well, what the hell, off with the feet."
"So what's the alternative?"
"Diet and nutrition."
"'Your food shall be your medicine,' said Hippocrates," said the scruffy one.
"And fasting…." Alice added.
"Oh yeah, periodic fasting is excellent."
"But that's no food," I pointed out.
"It cleans out your bloodstream and major organs of degenerative toxins. And it gives your digestive system a much-needed rest. Fasting is especially effective when combined with colonic irrigation therapy."
"That's what I need, man. Got a bad case of stomach worms in India last month. Can't get rid of the bastards."
"What's colonic irrigation therapy?"
"It's a method of cleansing the colon of accumulated mucus and impacted waste matter. Very simple procedure. Twice a day while you're fasting you flush out the colon with a five-gallon mixture of warm water, coffee, and apple-cider vinegar. You'd be amazed at what comes out."
"Worms, I hope," said the new panelist.
"You mean you pump five gallons of the stuff up your ass?"
"Well, you lie down, place one end of the plastic tube in your anus, and regulate the flow of the liquid. Hold it in, massage your colon for a few minutes, release it all into the toilet, and do it again."
"You make it sound like sort of a party game. Don't they play charades or musical chairs in Canada?"
"Oh, really. It's a marvelous way to maintain your health."
"That's what I need. A good flushing of me intestines. I can't find a place that does it."
"The Spa on Lamai Beach does. I work there."
Sounds like a lot of shit, I thought.
"Come on by. I can set you up on a seven-day fasting and colonic irrigation program."
"It'll rid me of these damn worms?"
"Absolutely. It's a great remedy for worms."
"You going back there soon?"
"Soon as I finish this drink."
The one I bought for her.
"Got a ride?"
"No. I take the bus."
"Hell. I'll give you a ride on my motorbike. Maybe you can show me the set-up and I'll start tomorrow."
"Fine by me. I just have to go to the toilet, then we'll leave."
Alice must feel pretty much at home in a toilet. Probably books into a hotel for a toilet with a room down the hall.
"Wow! She's one cool chick, man. She your lady?"
"No. Met her here a half hour ago."
"You trying to make a play on her or something?"
"Hell, no. Beautiful girl like that? Nice body and a pretty face. What do you think, I'm crazy?"
"Oh, well. Sorry man. I just kind of flipped when she mentioned colonic irrigation, because like I said I got these worms, and now I can get them flushed out. This is really lucky meeting her. And she’s a foxy looking babe."
Yes, that much I knew. But not much else about the other subjects.
"I'm happy for you. Hope things work out."
"Thanks, man. Oh, here she comes. I guess we're out of here."
"See you later."
"Bye. Nice talking to you,” Alice called over. “Thanks for the drink."
"My pleasure. Bye-bye."
Some guys just seem to have the right tact when it comes to motor-biking off into the sunset with a beautiful woman in the saddle. Son of a bitch probably didn't have worms at all.
My buddies in the bleachers wouldn't be too proud of me. Imagine being upstaged by a shabby looking fellow wearing ankle bracelets and a nose ring. Maybe they'll live happily ever after. On the other hand, if that’s what is meant by "all's well that ends well"—forget it.
I ordered another beer, torched a cigarette, and listened to some bad jazz.