The Page Shall be My Stage; or, Anus Like a Cobra

A few years ago a friend went into stand-up comedy. (Dewayne White, check him out.) It sparked an interest, and I wondered if I had what it takes. I started writing material, but before I could get onstage COVID came along. Eighteen months later, we’re still dealing with it. My desire to perform has cooled, but writing is still fun. Then it occurred to me: rather than performing stand-up, I’ll be like Mark Twain, a humorist. I’ll let the page be my stage. Here’s the first bit I wrote.

In 1997 I was in debt, working as a telemarketer, and pursuing a Masters degree in Creative Writing. I guess I didn’t think crippling debt and telemarketing were bad enough, because I decided to take out loans for an advanced degree in making shit up. I was a triple-threat in under achievement.

By the time I graduated I was desperate. I needed something stable, something with a future and opportunity for advancement. So I turned to the welcoming arms of the United States Army.

Actually, when I first started thinking about the military, I wanted to be smart about it. I researched the different branches to make the best choice.

First, I looked at the Marines. It didn’t take long to figure out they weren’t for me. They’re all about taking the beach. I’m a pasty white guy. I hate the beach.

And it didn’t take long to rule out the Navy. I toured a ship, saw the claustrophobic, homo-erotic living conditions, and moved on.

Next I looked at the Army. Here I had a research advantage. My father did a tour in the early 60’s. Based on his experience, “It sucked.” I thought, I’ll put a pin in that one.

Finally I came to the Air Force, and I liked what I saw. The Air Force was like the lite beer of the military. It looked like the rest, but had none of the self-inflicted pain the others took pride in. But the Air Force recruiter never returned my calls, and after a few months I gave up and went back to that pin on the wall.

I met with an Army recruiter who was super-eager to help me, which in retrospect I probably should have taken as a bad sign. Over the course of a few meetings we talked about my plans, and soon we made a trip to MEPS, the Military Entrance Processing Station.

First came the paperwork, which was as tedious as you mighy imagine. Then came the physical. A sergeant marched ten of us into a large cold room, told us to strip to our underwear and form a line. Then a doctor came in, a small Korean man in a lab coat. He walked down the line, glanced at each of us, and stepped into a room on the side. Then in a needlessly loud voice the sergeant announced what would happen next.

“NOW YOU WILL UNDERGO A COMPLETE PHYSICAL EXAM. YOU WILL STEP INTO THE NEXT ROOM TO SEE THE DOCTOR ONE AT A TIME. YOU WILL REMOVE YOUR UNDERWEAR AND STAND AT ATTENTION. THE DOCTOR WILL PERFORM A HERNIA CHECK, THEN TELL YOU TO BEND OVER. FOR THIS INSPECTION YOU WILL FACE AWAY FROM THE DOCTOR, BEND 90 DEGREES AT THE WAIST, REACH BACK AND SPREAD YOUR BUTTOCKS. ARE THERE ANY QUESTIONS?”

After hearing the procedure described, I had several, but I kept them to myself. He made it clear he didn’t really want any.

This is the only part of the entire process that made me nervous. I’ve never been comfortable undressing in front of others. As a teenager I’d participate in sports up to the point of perspiring, then suddenly get winded or tag out, just to avoid the locker room shower. For me, the thought of baring myself for the doctor was unsettling, and doing what the sergeant described was terrifying. But I was a Man, dammit, ready to serve my country, so I psyched myself up. I decided I would follow his instructions to the letter. I would behave like a true soldier — without thought or mental reservation.

My turn came. The door opened and I went in. I’ll never forget what I saw.

The room was small, little more than a closet. The doctor, the small Korean man, was slouching on a stool and staring at the floor with an expression of utter defeat. If he had been standing at the rail of a bridge I would have shouted, “Don’t jump!” But I was preoccupied with my own situation and paid him no mind.

I closed the door, removed my underwear, and stood at attention. He pulled on a rubber glove, wheeled his stool forward, and told me to cough.

Then came the moment of truth. Having psyched myself up, I was anxious but committed. I was like a coiled spring. When he motioned for me to turn around, I sprang into action. I spun, bent over, reached back and spread my buttocks.

I was so committed, I had put my brain on auto-pilot. My goal was to do exactly as the sergeant said in order to get through the ordeal as quickly as possible.

I was so wound up, it didn’t occur to me the VERY DIRECTIVE WAY the sergeant gave the instructions was just a military mannerism. It didn’t occur to me that when the moment came, I could act like a normal, self-conscious human being and take my time without repercussion. There were no bombs dropping. There was no need to spring into action.

So one might say I performed the maneuver with, what to the doctor must have seemed, an unexpected energy and enthusiasm.

Before he could react, he was eye-to-eye with my anus.

He wheeled his stool back against the wall, raised his hands as if protecting himself, and yelled, “Enough, enough!”

Which I thought was a strange response, because it all happened in the space of a second. His words made it seem as if it had been prolonged — as if he’d gazed upon my sphincter and, like a gently swaying cobra, it had held him there, entranced.

For the remainder of our time together, he didn’t speak, but he didn’t need to. He hurriedly signed off my paperwork and, as I left, shook his head and gave me a look as if to say, “What the hell is wrong with you?”

I was so relieved to be done, I didn’t give it any thought. It wasn’t until the drive home that I reflected on it. If he had a family, I’m sure I was a topic of dinner conversation that night.

And suddenly I realized why, when I opened the door, he looked almost suicidal. Here was a man who grew up in Korea, one of the hardest working and most academically competitive societies on Earth, who earned a medical degree and emigrated to the United States for a better life — now reduced to anus inspector.

Then my mind wandered further and I wondered, what’s the Army’s interest in the anus, anyway? No civilian doctor ever asked me to do that. Why do Army doctors have to put “eyes on” the anus? The only reason I can imagine is to check for hemorrhoids. If that’s the case, wouldn’t it be easier — and less traumatic for everyone—if they just asked if I had hemorrhoids?

The only other place I’ve heard of anus inspections is prison. But when you join the Army, if you want to take in contraband, you just put it in your pocket. You don’t have to hide it in your “prison pocket.”

So still I wonder, what is the Army’s interest in the anus? What are doctors looking for? Are they grading anuses? If so, what grade did I get?

And if they are grading anuses, what does an “F” look like?