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From: <dev-null@no-id.com>
Date: 22 Nov 2000 13:09:29 -0000
Message-ID: <20001122130929.24475.qmail@propane.zoomph.net>
To: www-html@w3.org
Anal Fissure Bob is still alive. Not only alive, but growing stronger 

each day. 

Last nights pasta came as quite a shock this morning. 

I must go back for another violent anal dilation on August 9. Hopefully 

there will be many more details to relate to you. 

Here is the original post: 

  After lurking about in the wings the required 2 months I have 

felt the need to tell you about my anal fissure Bob. 

  It all started about two years ago in Thailand. I had just 

fired a round of green chile liquishit down the 

hole that the Asians call "toilet" when I noticed an odd 

sensation just inside the rim of my sphincter accompanied by a 

blasting spray of rich red blood. 

  After living in Asia for six months I thought that I had 

experienced nearly every digestive tract malady known to man. 

Worms, burning and colonic liquidity on a huge scale. Butt 

(hehe) this was something completely different. 

  It was a singularly unique feeling that I know now to have 

been the actual tearing of my rectum. It was Bob making himself 

know to me. 

  At first Bob wasn't so bad. Occasional itch and discomfort. 

Nothing that I couldn't handle. A mint flavored suppository now 

and again seemed to do the trick. 

  But then about a year ago my cruel master Bob began requiring 

more and more from me. Itching on a scale that can only be 

desribed as "hellish" was the order of the day. I had a 

permanent brown stain on my index finger from trying to scratch 

the inside of my colon through my troubled anus. 

  I had lost all sense of decorum. I no longer cared what people 

thought. I often walk around in public with my hand down my 

pants, finger firmly implanted, trying to appease the evil God 

Bob. 

  In my spare time I would daydream about modifying various farm 

impliments to deal with the overwhelming itch. I even went so 

far as to order a tined hand trowel. 

  Finally, I went to see a doctor. He made a quick diagnosis of 

hemmorhoids and let me go with a perscription for some 

industrial strength hemlube (tm.) The doc never saw Bob, who 

had retreated into his tear in fear of his only natural enemy, 

the medical practioner. 

  This only made Bob more angry and he visited wanton terror 

upon me. I began babbling to myself and have conditioned myself 

so against shitting that it is only with a great nashing of 

teeth to I make my approach to the bowl. As the chocolate tube 

steak descends I feel my rectum tear assunder like the curtain 

of the holy tabernacle. Bob laughing. Bob laughing. 

  Now, I have finally found a doctor that can help me. She made 

the diagnosis with a flashlight clamped firmly in her teeth. I 

had met her in a bar and Bob was not expecting a midnight 

diagnosis on my living room floor. "No problem" she said. 

  I have since been scheduled for surgery on October 29th to 

exorsise Bob from my most tender of parts. He seems to have 

accepted his fate and has been more peacefull as of late. We 

spend our time singing and reminiscing about our last two years 

together. We talk about the life after this one and I comfort 

him with rectal salve and oatmeal. 

  I will post details of the operation, and details about the 

demise of Bob. 

  I hope that he will be brave. 

The surgery that had been scheduled for October 29th has been 

postponed until December the first. Bob has had a stay of 

execution or a reprieve if you will. 

Bob has become a holy terror of an anal fissure and my surgeon 

has informed me that the most effective way of dealing with Bob 

is a form of surgical exorcism that is know to the medical 

profession as; VIOLENT ANAL DILATION. I am not making this up! 

They are going to anaesthetize Bob and I and then dilate my 

asshole to a diameter that until that moment it had never known. 

My greatest fear is becomming conscious and out of the corner 

of my eye seeing the medical staff zipping up their trousers. 

Semi tasteless: I have met a man named Ream. This is his name. 

Word of honor. It just seems so appropriate that I meet him at 

the stage of my life when violent anal dilation is required. 

Maybe I should spare myself the trauma of surgery and spend 

more time with Ream. 

  As you know, my anal fissure Bob and I were due to be 

seperated today. By that most tasteless of medical marvels, 

violent anal dialation, Bob was to be no more. 

  The hospital scheduled the dialation over a week ago. They had 

sent me some medicine that I was to take the night before, and 

the morning of the procedure. It consisted of an overdose of 

some kind of laxitive pill and two suppositories the size of a 

sputnik. 

  Yesterday evening I had ingested the pills and inserted the 

Grogan Buster(tm) industrial strength stool liquifier. Around 

ten, I began to feel the need, and by 10:15 I was sitting on 

the throne enjoying one of the most massive squats of my life. 

Everything, and I mean EVERYTHING that was not original 

equipment that came with my digestive tract was madly 

scrambling for the exit. 

  Sound like fun? Well, for a while it was. Then things began to 

go wrong. 

  I had evacuated myself from stem to stern. Enough allready I 

thought. Things slowed down, and I showered off. 

  This morning, I awoke at 4:00 am and as according to my 

physicians instructions, inserted the remaining suppository. 

Mistake. By 5:00 I was fully in the throws of the colonic "dry 

heaves." There was nothing to shit, but my colon was recieving 

a chemical message to evacuate at any cost. What had started 

out as a good time was rapidly turning into a nightmare. 

  I arrived at the hospital at 9:00. I was greeted by a nurse 

who looked as though she belonged in the WWF. I surrendered my 

trousers and at her command was treated to not one, but two 

enemas. There was some kind of chemical added to "help clean 

you out." I once again began desperately trying to expell the 

contents of my digestive system. Alas, it had been empty since 

the night before. I sat on the bowl, my sphincter twitching in 

and out as it tried to pass the phantom grogan that it thought 

was there. It began to hurt. Bad. For the next half hour I was 

in such terrible pain. My asshole felt as though it had been 

beaten with a baseball bat. Eventually, the pain began to 

subside. 

  I was led into an ajoining examination room. A doctor that 

hadn't seen or fingered me before was there. He explained that 

my surgery was postponed for a week because they had decided 

that one final test should be performed. 

  I should stop here to tell you that I am an American living in 

the country of Finland. Yeah, I speak some Finnish. But it's 

limited to things like "Gee, those are nice tits." So I wasn't 

too hep to the terminology of Finnish speaking proctologists. 

  If I knew what was about to happen, I never would have laid 

down on that table. 

  THE SCOPE! OUCH! OhJeesusOhJeesusOhJeesus. 

  Never do this! No matter what they tell you! No matter how 

hard they plead and cajole. Believe me, death is preferable. 

  What happened to me next was this: A doctor snaked a 60 cm 

fiber optic hose up my fundament. It had a viewing scope on one 

end, and a device to pump air into my colon on the other. As he 

manipulated it up my rectum I could feel the head move through 

the colon. I could imagine the bright light moving through the 

labyrinth of sphincters and valves. It reminded me of a 

motorcyle headlight racing through the Holland tunnel. 

  The searing pain was intense. At one point in time, I felt as 

if the thing was pressing on my lungs. I definitely felt it try 

to enter something that I was sure was some kind of door to my 

stomach. At that moment, I began to sweat profusely. The world 

began to spin. My stomach tried to retch, but again, nothing to 

barf. There I was, lying naked on a cold table with a scope up 

my air filled colon trying to spew when a plan for revenge 

crept into my mind. With all my might I pressed my diaphram 

down into the pressurized shit chamber. A tremendous wet fart 

sang around the hose and out my asshole. It was accomponied by 

the overwhelming stench of impacted fecal matter. A small smile 

crossed my lips. The doctor and nurse pretended as though 

nothing had happened. It was only seconds later though that the tube 

was retracted and the nurse had to wipe my liquishit smeared 

rectum. 

  Needless to say, a good time was had by all. 

  Next week: Violent anal dialation. 

  It's been a while since violent anal dilation. 

  I'm afraid that I have neglected my duties by not telling you 

about it sooner. But I have been at some loss for words about 

it. 

  My anal fissure Bob who had plagued me for the last three 

years is in the process of dying. 

  After the violent anal dilation I had expected to awaken from 

my anaesthetized slumber to find that Bob had been completely 

destroyed. Annihilated by modern medicine in a small sterile 

room of a hospital in Seinajoki Finland. A rich heritage of 

blood and pain wiped out in minutes by strangers in mask and 

gown. 

  It all started a couple of Mondays ago at 7 am. I hadn't slept 

much the night before. Bob was quiet, but I lay awake thinking 

about what was to come the next morning. I was a little 

worried. I was about to experience something called violent 

anal dilation and I was a bit concerned. I found out later that 

my fears about the procedure where in fact pretty close to 

reality. 

  I arrived at the hospital in good spirits. I was shown my bed 

and given the button up the back surgical minidress. Even 

though the procedure wasn't scheduled until 1:30 I was required 

to change into the garment. I suppose that it's a manditory 

indignity to humiliate and degrade potential troublemakers. 

Maybe word had gotten out that I had been asking questions 

about the procedure. What kind of drugs that they would be 

giving me, if my physician had performed many of these 

procedures etc. Medical personnel here don't like being quized 

by foriegners with anal fissures. It had taken lots of 

explaining just to get permission to have a video taped 

documentary of the procedure made and released to me. I had to 

get my local practitioner to request it. It has since been 

explained to me that most procedures are taped anyway. They 

just don't release the tapes to the public. 

  I was in bed dozing when I felt a sharp pain in my ass. I 

whirled my head around in bed to see a rather stern and 

matronly looking woman with a large enema bag. Presumably it 

was her and her nozzle 'o fun that was causing the distress. I 

admired her technique. I was asleep. She probably figured that 

I would sleep right through it. What, and miss all the fun? Not 

likely. Besides, she was about as gentle as a bull elephant. 

Anal fissure Bob let out a sharp cry of pain. And so did I. She 

smiled and patted my head like a lap dog as she filled my 

rectum. As I looked around the room, I realized that we were 

not alone. Not 10 feet away was the wife and 2 teenage 

daughters of the vericose vein strip down in the bed next to 

me. They were all checking me out. I smiled my best grimace and 

tried to enjoy myself. 

  At 1:00 my doctor dropped by for a chat. The first thing that 

I noticed about him was that the hand that he extended in 

greeting had a slight palsy. Actually, it was more of a 

tremor. This is true! "Halloo" he said with a poorly forced 

smile that revealed his large yellow teeth." I spake anglish 

warry badney." " Uh....hi" I stammered "I speak a little 

Finnish; we will try to talk;" "OK" he agreed. We chatted about 

the usual stuff.....pain.... etc. I'm trying to ask the guy 

about the procedure when out of the blue, he looks up and says 

"We will tear you a new asshole." I am not making this up. By 

this time, I am not feeling very confident about what's going 

on and am giving some serious thought to just getting up and 

leaving. I knew about A.F. Bob. He was something that I could 

understand. I could live with him. This surgeon was something 

else. An unknown X with a license to dilate. He gave me two 

tiny white pills to swallow. "For made you relax" he said. 

Hmmmm this guy was starting to speak my language, maybe this 

wouldn't be so bad after all. "Seee yuuu in da operashunn 

place" he said and was gone. 

  I began feeling a little light headed from whatever drug it 

was that he had given me when two orderlies came in. They clucked 

low and softly to me in Finnish. Who knows what they were 

talking about. I just kept nodding my head stupidly. I couldn't 

have answered them anyway as my toungue was stuck to the roof 

of my parched mouth. As they rolled me down the hall I tried to 

count the number of acoustic tiles in the ceiling. 

  Eventually, we arrive at the big swinging doors of the 

operating room and are met by two others in surgical greens. It 

was like a prisoner exchange at the Rhine. They greeted each 

other. The two that transported me there wish me a happy 

dilation, hand over my file to the others, then turn and leave 

me with the dilation team. 

  As we enter the operating theatre I begin to feel quite 

aprehensive. My toungue is thick in my mouth. I am transferred 

to the main operating table. The anaesthetist walks in and 

without so much as a hello started tapping my forearm to find a 

suitable vein. I try to greet him but all that comes out is a 

horrible sqwak. 

  I am relieved of my meager garment and I lay there, 

alone and naked. I look down in horror to see that my penis and 

testicles have completely withdrawn into my abdomen. Perhaps 

they had seen it first and were trying to warn me because 

there, on a stainless steel tray, nestled amongst strange 

looking devices is the object of my aprehension. It is some 

sort of anal battering ram. It is stainless steel and is about 

a foot long. It has two handles bolted to it. And for all the 

world it looked like one of those Stanley thermoses. 

  By this time, a vein had been found and been hooked up to the 

Anaesthetist. He still hasn't said anything so I find my 

voice. "How about a little valium to get thing started." He 

surprises me by speaking perfect English. "Here;" he said,"Try 

this" and injects something into the hookup that *IMMEDIATELY* 

makes me feel secure and right at home. No more problems. I 

chuckle at the prospect of the stainless invader. 

  As this all was happening, the nurses were quite busy. They 

had stainless steel poles that they were affixing to the sides 

of the operating table. On top of these poles were large 

plastic blocks that were deeply indented to accomodate what 

could only be my thighs. A more compromising version of the 

stirrups that doctors often use to examine women. And truly, 

the video has born my theory out. My buttring is bright, 

exposed, and nearly eye level to the weilder of the dilation 

tool. 

  The chief dilator strolls in, and nods at the anaesthetist. 

The latter hooks up a large syringe full of what looked like 

vaseline to my I.V. line and says "See you later." I remember 

trying to fight it just to see if I could. I couldn't. I 

remember having a monster head rush and trying to speak. That's 

the last thing that I remember. 

  It's only now that I review the video tape that I realize the 

horror of what actually happened to me. 

  It's strange to see yourself lying on a cold slab, your penis 

retracted, falling unconcious. Right after I go out, a nurse 

puts a black rubber mask over my face. Two attendants raise my 

thighs into the "stirrups" and scrunch me down so that my 

ankles are bent straight back towards my head. The camera 

angle is from straight overhead, so you get a weird out of body 

feeling watching the whole thing. One nurse manipulates what's 

left of my genetalia out of the way while another 

unceramoniously paints my asshole with some sort of red tinted 

disinfectant. 

  The doctor wastes no time and before you can say "Is he 

asleep?" has two of his fingers deep into my ass. He checks 

around and durring the examination gives my prostate a mighty 

push. I swear that I shoot a load of something straight onto my 

belly where it just sits there through the rest of the 

procedure. The doctor gives a grunt of satisfaction and reaches 

for the dilator. 

  Nurses squirt some kind of lubricant from a large syringe into 

and around my ass. The surgeon then inserts the end of the 

dilation unit ino my ass and begins rotating it left and right. 

Soon he had my poor asshole fully dilated. And I mean 

*DILATED*. There I am out like a light with a stainless steel 

thermos up my ass. Every thirty seconds or so the doctor does a 

360 with the thing. 

  Everyone is looking pretty bored, especially me. 

  After about 1/2 hour of this, the doctor removes the dilator 

and PUTS HIS ENTIRE HAND UP MY ASS. This is the best part of 

the video. If you have had a few drinks and squint a little it 

looks for a moment like some kind of bizzare bondage/fisting 

film. 

  A satisfied nod and the nurses move in for the clean up. 

Someone has the presense of mind to wipe the manually 

ejaculated fluid off of my belly. Someone swabs the shit and 

blood from my ass. 

  I get another syringe of something in my arm. The mask comes 

off my face. A nurse shakes me gently and my eyes flutter 

open. "Is it over?" I ask with wonderous shining eyes. Lots of 

nods around the room. "I dreamed" I say. "Wow, I feel fine!" 

  End of video. 

  They wheel me into the recovery room where I try to sit up. I 

carefully reach down in a cautious exploration of my asshole. 

It is confounded with a giant tamponlike stuffing. "Uh oh" I 

think to myself and try to ignore it. It's only later when 

they pull the stuffing out do I realize the full extent of 

what's happened. 

  Anyway, a little later I eat some soup and vomit it back up 

right away. The vomit is a vile green. 

  The next day, I took the first effortless shit that I had in 

sometime. Oh joy! Oh nirvana. 

  After the surgery, Bob was still his usual self. In fact, he 

was more terrible than usual. He had expected sudden death and 

when he awoke, believing that he had survived a professional 

ass (hehe) ass (hehe) ination attempt he was even more pissed 

off and motivated then before. He had felt betrayed, and had 

amused himself for the first several days after the procedure 

by visiting a torturous itching upon me, his host. 

  The hard part about his slow strangulation is that I can feel 

him dying. He groans and complains like any other terminal 

patient. I must take him with me wherever I go. We are like the 

Siamese twins Chang and Eng. Can I survive without my symbiotic 

buddy? 

Well, at least fire and blood won't shoot out of my ass every 

time that I try to pop a stubborn grogan. I will no longer know 

the joys of crying real tears when I shit. For a long time I 

was told that painful elimination was unnatural. Now, I truly 

understand. 

  Now, two weeks later Bob is only a faint echo of his former 

self. He is still hanging onto life, but only just. He is still 

there, and ugly slash of an anal fissure. But no longer red and 

pusy. The occasional itch. That is all. And even that is 

fading rapidly. 

  And oh yes....my butthole has sprung back to a more managable 

size. Your asshole really is an incredible machine. 

  I had a small dinner party on Christmas day. After dinner I 

put on the video. It took about twenty minutes before anyone 

realised that it was me. I guess they thought it was Nova or 

something. Ho Ho Ho. 

  Thank you for your interest in my anal fissure Bob. 



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Received on Wednesday, 22 November 2000 08:09:30 GMT

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