No rant today, BUGgers. Just a solemn day of remembrance for me as it’s now exactly two years since I lost a life-long friend.

Oh, the things we did together in 73 years of mayhem and mischief and I’d do just about anything to have him back. We were bum buddies after all. And I still think of his passing – well, technically by-passing – just about every day.

Some of you eagle-eyed BUGgers who took a close look at our feature image above might have cottoned on to the fact that I’m talking about my arsehole. No, not a human one, although I’ve met some of them in my time! I’m talking about MINE! And how we parted company two years ago as I underwent an 11-hour operation up at the Royal Brisbane to get rid of some pesky rectal Spanish dancer.

Perhaps I need to clarify things a little. When I woke up in ICU, my arsehole was still there but the days of it giving me a smile with an untimed and embarrassing fart when it shouldn’t have were over. As were its habits of leaving skid marks on my undies and sheets. Think about it: you get potty trained but does anyone ever remember being taught by your mum and dad how to wipe your arse properly?

Anyway, the bottom line is that for the past two years, you could safely eat a meal off my original arsehole. It’s, as Bill Lawry might say, clean as a whistle. For my brown-eyed days were over from that day on. My sphincter is pink – well, at least I’m assuming it is – and if it doesn’t smell of roses, it sure doesn’t smell of shit. And who flashes brown eyes any more anyway!

For two years now, my new arsehole, courtesy of very clever oncology surgeons, is just a little to the left and slightly above my beer belly button. And those 731 days (2024 was a leap year) have been spent trying to find benefits of now having a permanent colostomy. I’ve left no stoma unturned in those endeavours. I’ve tried to be a half-ostomy pouch full short of guy; let them get too full and they can blow a gasket and that’s not pretty.

Well, back to the advantages of what’s happened to me. For starters, I can take a shit ANYTIME I like! Sitting in a restaurant. On a train. In a cinema.

In fact I’m squeezing one out right now as I sit here typing this. It’s actually squeezing itself out but let me continue. Can anyone else do that? Apart from people like me? Okay, maybe Donald Trump sitting in his Oval Office and typing up a caps-riddled rant to upload to his Truth Social site. But he’d have to change his diaper!

Another plus? How many people can look at their own arsehole without using a mirror!

You also get to flirt more or less monthly with the lovely ladies up at the Queensland Stoma Association store when collecting the various supplies an ostomee needs, if there’s such a word.

So, when you add those advantages to being skidmark free for the rest of your days – you can use your undies and bedsheet for weeks, even month, without washing, so think of the saving there on washing power, electricity and water – there are considerable upsides to having no functional backside, right?

Oh, who the fuck am I trying to kid. If I had a million dollars, I’d gladly part with it just to plop down on the dunny seat and have a crap in the old fashioned way, even if for just one last time. I do miss the hour I spent doing that. The screaming and the obscenities, the clenched fist on the towel rail, the other banging the bathroom wall in frustration, and checking afterwards to make sure there wasn’t too much blood in the bowl or on the dunny paper.

Which reminds me. Please get that bowel cancer test kit out of the bathroom drawer and do the bloody thing, especially if it is. It could save your life. It’s extended mine.

And as you can see from the recent photo of me above, life is still there to be enjoyed even after losing a lifelong friend, even if he was quite the arsehole at times.

Don Gordon-Brown

A long-term and loyal friend passes on!

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