Rerun: You gotta wash yo ass!

This is a story about the Meadows family. See the sidebar? If you have not met the Meadows clan yet, do go and hit the list there. You'll probably regret it. In the meantime, this is true story about a real family that I rented from....BRIEFLY.
...and yes, its been edited. I remembered a few things. Lucky you!____________________________________

Driving professionally takes a certain toll on one's lower body, and Mr. Meadows was decidedly gimpy after twenty some-odd years behind the wheel of a milk truck. In full stride he walked like a sailor in a full diaper. When he got up from a chair it would take him a couple of minutes to build up steam, during which he'd make a great big dramatic deal out of hitching around room, bent over at the waist, groaning and exclaiming, knocking over potted plants and end tables with his giant ass.

We were all sitting around the kitchen table watching this show one evening when Kelvin laughed and said to his brother "Hey, aren't you glad you don't have to squeeze his butt anymore?"

WHAT?
___________________________

I thank God that this following episode happened before I knew these people.
___________________________

Many moons gone*, seems ol' dad had been bothering a zit on his ass. After a couple of weeks he'd succeeded in making it nice and infected. The time he spent loading and unloading his truck each night further aggravated this condition, as did hustling back and forth making deliveries. The additional hours spent behind the wheel of an unsprung truck seated on vinyl might as well have been spent scooting his bare backside across a patch of coarse grit sandpaper for the effect it had on his carbuncle. It grew into a distinct, golfball-sized entity one could detect through the heavy twill of his white uniform pants.

Yes, well. The spreading pinkish stain was also a giveaway that all was not well in assville.

But he carried on, brave soldier. And sure enough, his Spartan regimen of shitty diet, hairy crack, poor hygeine and neglect paid off; the thing subsided and went away. See? Nothing to worry about.
And all was well.

Until he hopped up into the seat of his truck one night and a quart of green pus shot out of his ass. He screamed, he jumped, and in doing so drove his forehead into the windshield so hard he passed out.
Dad had given himself an anal fistula.

(Now at this point in our story Mr. Meadows himself sauntered over and chimed in, all smiles, to helped tell the tale. By the end even Sunflower had joined the fun. And the important thing to bear in mind here is that none of them saw anything inappropriate at all about entertaining a guest with a story about ass disease.)

Mr. Meadows woke up in the hospital on his stomach with a freshly shaved fundament and some nice big dressings.

The original carbuncle had moved back beneath the skin and fat into the meat of the muscle, and then had actually migrated downward toward a vestigial anal gland, which it ruptured and emptied into. Because this gland had an open channel to the rectal passage, all the old pus and other chunky necrotic guck met up with some brand new bacterial buddies floating around in the fluid that was already there. The whole stew turned into a horrifically toxic ticking bomb. When he jumped up into the truck, the impact of his giant lard ass hitting the seat with all his weight behind it made the fistula explode. It burst, sending a quart of unimaginably horrible semi-fluid corruption geysering out through the pore-sized exit of the gland, enlarging it to the size of a dime.
All this had happened right at the ingress to his egress.
Yes.
He'd literally been torn a new asshole.

Now that dime, and the tennis-ball-sized cavity behind it, were cleaned out and filled with cotton packing. They sent him home and told him he could remove it himself in a couple of days.
Oh by the way. Don't leave rejoicing just yet, Mr. Milkman. If you don't keep your ass clean, the thing will FILL BACK UP.

Skip ahead one week.
It filled back up.
With the packing in place.

The only course of action now was to nut up, remove the packing, express the gland and keep it filled with Neosporin.

Sunflower flat out refused. Of course.

So the task fell to Eldest Brother.

There were several YARDS of surgical gauze up there.

Luckily, once the part that had hardened into a solid, cork-sized plug of blackened matter had been worked out, the rest of it came slithering out pretty easily. Yards and yards and yards and yards of it. Slithering out.

Don't imagine that this was accomplished without lots of commotion on the part of Satan's Milkman. Eldest finally had to tie him to the bed.
With belts. Leather belts.

So every night for a couple of months thereafter, it was Eldest Brothers' job to collect up everyones' belt, buckle them together, tie his father to the bed face down, spread dads giant nasty asscheeks and then pinch his dads' nasty infected asshole between his thumbs and express the infected gleeg out of the gland into a washcloth until it was empty. No matter how many washcloths it took.
Then he had to poke a tube of goo up there, root around until he found the right hole, and squeeze until the goop started to squit back out.**
Then he'd fold a bath towel into a square and slap it up against dads pucker, let his asscheeks slap back together, and wrap it all in place with an ace bandage.

All done!

I never took a shower in that house again.


______________

*like I was going to resist that? please.

** Sometimes Eldest Brother didn't find the right hole and went through a whole tube of Neosporin before he realized that he'd just disenfected his fathers entire lower colon, and somehow never thought to wonder why dad never bothered to mention that something felt different. (I did. And then I thought about it for a second, and I.... didn't.) Sometimes the Neosporin came squitting back out at velocity right into Eldest Brothers....whatever happened to be in range. This Mr. Meadows idea of a fun little joke. Surprise!