Are you as excited about this as me? It's Colorectal Cancer Awareness Month!

I am reposting my series on my colon screening adventures in honor of March's National Colorectal Cancer Awareness Month. Enjoy this deep, dark journey.

I have decided to share this very personal journey with all of you as an educational journey of the procedure to raise awareness of the things you need to do to stay healthy.  You’re welcome in advance.   

It’s that time in my life, I guess (53 years old), where doctors are telling me I should get certain tests to make sure I live a long life.  Not only are the doctors telling me this but my health insurance provider or should I say non-provider is also pushing hard for this procedure. Which since they don't pay on any claims over $6.56 it's somewhat suspicious but I’m sure they have my best interest at heart. Not many people who know me would promote this course of action and they obviously have not talked to my wife since with a million dollar life policy on the line, it’s in her best interest to see me die sooner rather than later, preferably in an “accident”.  I’m sure every day she dreams of, Javier, the pool boy delivering her frozen umbrella drinks in his white mesh speedo.  Anyway, first up on the recommendation list is a colonoscopy.   Why this is first I don’t know.  I would have hoped they eased you in with a less invasive procedure but I'm guessing these people are direct descendants of Nazi doctors.   Here is a description straight from Dr. Google.  

Colonoscopy is a test that allows your doctor to look at the inner lining of your large intestine (rectum and colon). He or she uses a thin, flexible tube called a colonoscope to look at the colon. A colonoscopy helps find ulcers, colon polyps, tumors, and areas of inflammation or bleeding. During a colonoscopy, tissue samples can be collected (biopsy) and abnormal growths can be taken out. Colonoscopy can also be used as a screening test to check for cancer or precancerous growths in the colon or rectum (polyps). 

Sweet.  I can’t think of anything else I would rather do when forced to burn a vacation day than to have a flexible tube that ranges from 48” to 72” stuck up my wazzo (medical term for what you would call someone who cuts you off in traffic) or the more common jail term, prison purse.  Holy Cow, up to 6’ long, what the heck I’m only 6’ tall, where are they running this thing?  Maybe I read that wrong and this is just something they use during cave exploration or is left over from the deep tunnel project. They don’t mention anything about the diameter and quite frankly that’s what worries my hard earned, tight wazzo.  As a bonus, to further medical research and in case you can’t get enough of seeing other peoples “Selfie’s”, I bought the latest device (see below) so I can post the whole procedure to my Utube account. 

Inner Selfie Stick - $42.00 - Get the hole picture

·        The perfect tool for the more intimate selfie

·        Like mum always said, it’s what’s on the inside that counts

·        Be an instant YouTube sensation

·        Offers crystal clear, 360° views of internal contours

By the time your done reading Part 1 of this education series, I will have swigged the prescribed four liters of something or other (see picture), sat on the toilet for approximately six hours crapping out all the stuff I consumed on the 4th of July and will be sitting, maybe standing, in the waiting room anxiously awaiting for my name to be called. I did not think of it then but if you go through this channel your college experience and beer bong that stuff down. 

Even though I’m slightly worried, I am confident in my doctor’s skills that he will make it most tolerable.  After all, Dr. Cliff Huxtable, is world renowned for sedating people and slipping things into and out of any orifice without you even remembering it.   If for some reason I find it enjoyable, I am going to start wearing robes most of my waking hours and smoking a pipe.  In addition, I will be painting a big rock white and placing it near my front door as the international signal that I’m now a swinger and the doors open. 

Feel free to take your best guess of what they might find up my wazzo. 

What will they find up Bob “JokeTooMuch” Kinsloe’s Wazzo or as they call it in jail, a prison purse?

1.      Gerbil

2.      Sock

3.      Jimmy Hoffa

4.      Cell Phone

5.      Car Keys

6.      V-8

7.      Toothbrush Holder

8.      Shot Glass

It’s Getting Personal, Part II - The ShitShow 

In all endeavors, it’s the preparation that takes all the time and hard work, it’s no different when it comes to a Colonoscopy.  That big jug that contains four quarts of laxative is a heck of a lot to drink however my doctor prescribes taking it in two stages.  Half the evening before and the other half the morning before the procedure.  So I get to sit on the crapper for hours at a time twice in a twelve hours span.  What’s worse is for some reason I told my youngest son, MoneySuck2 that he could have two friends stay for a sleepover.  Fortunately, the waste my life away playing video games room is in my attic on the 3rd floor.  So the sounds of a colon cleanse were not going to reach them, not sure about the smell. 

Recommended Set-Up

Recommended Set-Up

It is important that you follow all instructions in the prep procedure.  No time for civil disobedience since you don’t want to do this twice.  So first up is to fill the four-quart jug up with water which mixes with the laxative.  The nice thing is they have added a nice lemon-lime flavor to make it more palatable.  They suggest you put it in the refrigerator and get it cold since it tastes better cold.  So there it sat on my top shelf of the refrigerator waiting for the start of my journey.  In the meantime I was taking in some TV, MoneySuck2 was out playing basketball in the alley with his friends, my wife was praying and my oldest son, MoneySuck1 was surfing porn on some secretive phone app that even the CIA can’t crack.  All is right with the world.  Well, you know what, nothing is ever right with the world is it?  Turns out MoneySuck2 and his two friends came in from playing basketball and naturally were quite thirsty.  What better way for them to quench their thirst than with some nice, cold lemon-lime water.  Man, those little shit’s can build up a thirst fast.  By the time I was ready to start the colon cleanse more than half of it was gone.  Let’s throw out some text acronyms’; OMG, HS, WTF!  Tell me I’m seeing things and this really just did not happen.  Nope, MoneySuck2 confirms that they drank from this fine elixir.   

Kids drinking gatorade cartoon hoops 2.jpg

Let the ShitShow begin!!  Bad enough my kid is now shitting all over the place but now I have to explain to his friend's parents that I cleaned them out for no extra charge.  I guess I won’t have to worry about these two coming back for a sleepover.  So if this is not bad enough, I have to start my regimen which now pushes the shitting team to four.  Issue; we only have two bathrooms.  Ok, this is a new type of tag team of Olympic proportions.  If I had one of the old people booster toilet seats, I would have hung it over my laundry tub in the basement just for a little solitude.  The only good fortune for us is that my wife* had just dropped $456 on toilet paper at Costco, so we were good on that front.  In the next two hours, I learned two things.  I love toilet paper and Vaseline.  My wife learned one thing, never be in town during a colon cleanse.  Does anyone know how to disinfect a cell phone? 

*In an effort to be time efficient and knock one letter off my writing time, I will from this point forward refer to my wife in the acronym of FXW (Future Ex-Wife).  After this, the future is getting closer. 

So after a long night, Step 2, time to drink the rest of the lemon-lime laxative or what’s left.  I get up at 5:00 A.M., down what left of the lemon-lime laxative, sit on the toilet for another 2 hours and piss out what’s left in my colon.  On the glass-half-full side, I lost 2.5 pounds, take that Jenny Craig!  So as I head to my appointment I’m sure it can’t get worse than this, right? 

It’s Getting Personal, Part III – The Procedure or known by the medical term, spelunking 

Ok, now in an effort to live up to the website’s name, BobJokeTooMuch, I did a little creative writing in Part II.  Many of you suspected that was the case but I’m trying my best to keep you all off balance.  You should know that the genesis for that embellishment, about the kids drinking the laxative, almost went down as written.  The only thing that kept it from happening was the fact FXW was in the kitchen as MoneySuck2 was reaching for the jug and she called him off.  Whew!!!  Note that all of my writings are based on my true experiences and I will come clean at some point if I do embellish a story.  So onward to Part III. 

In what seems like an eternity, I'm finally here.  The world renowned, Christian Science Nosocomial Center, or commonly called Club Med.  I’m quite worn out from the events of the last twelve hours but I push through this modern form of the Bataan Death March, like the trooper I am.  I head up to the 2nd floor of the Hospital and check in at the front desk of the Outpatient Surgery Center.  Outpatient meaning get the F_ _ _ out of here so the insurance company does not have to pay for an overnight stay in this three-star hotel.  Once again,  I am forced to fill out the same form for the 12th time indicating that I am not dying at this moment and signing off that I can’t sue them if I do die in spite of what type of negligence takes place.  I don’t know how they got this form past the Institute for Personal Injury Lawyer butt I’m sure my crack firm of, Bleedum, Dry, Nomatter, Howe, Dumbur & Partners  Esq., can get around it, so I sign away.

Christian Science Hospital Cropped.jpg

As I sit in the waiting area I notice a lot of woman waiting and after some conversation with them come to find out they are all having the same procedure and happen to be getting married next weekend.  Seemed weird to schedule such a thing right before your wedding until I put 2 & 2 together.  They drop two to five pounds just in time to fit into their dress and they clear out all their shit to make room for the new shit in their life.  It’s all clear to me now. 

My name gets called and I feel like an 85-year-old senile man who thinks he just won bingo.  The excitement can’t be contained.  They usher me into an area that I thought was where they were going to perform the procedure.  There are twelve or so “Rooms” with just curtains around a bed.  Not the privacy I expected butt I’m on Obamacare so I guess privacy, amongst other things, is the collateral damage of socialized medicine.  Fortunately, it turns out this is just the staging area for the surgical procedure.  Whew, pulse rate settles back down to under 100.  The cute little nurse assistant from India, Dot, issue’s me the standard surgical gear with the instruction to strip down naked and put these on.  My pulse rate is back over 100 now because I have not had a woman tell me to strip down naked in eighteen plus years which happens to coincide with the year of my marriage.  Much to my naiveté, she leaves for this portion of the event.  Oh well, one moment of hope is better than nothing.  Instead, it went a little like this… 

Much to my surprise, the medical garb has not changed since 1798 with the exception that they give you socks with sticky bottoms.  I guess they don’t want you to slip running away if you chicken out.  I’m sure you all know the gig.  The front seems to be the back and the back seems to be the front.  I’m pretty sure it was designed by someone with dyslexia or had a butt fetish.  I will say, however, for this particular procedure, it makes perfect logic.  To allay your fears if you have to go through this procedure, I took some pictures and selfies (how hip am I?) of the staging area and my gear.  Look away if you don’t have a strong stomach. 

I told you to look away, dummy!

I told you to look away, dummy!

All good to go.  I lay there waiting for my turn.  Although I’m doing my best to meditate during this down period, I can’t help but overhear the interactions of the other patients with the nurses.  Hearing things like; are there supposed to be bubbles in the IV line, I forgot to wash my hands, you don’t mind do you, do nothing to alleviate my fears.  Someday I’ll get this meditation thing down and find my center.   

As I notice the clock moving past my designated procedure time I start wondering if there has not been some kind of problem.  Well, as it turns out my proctologist, Dr. Cliff Huxtable, could not make it due to some pressing legal matters.  Lucky enough for me, an equally qualified proctologist will be doing the procedure, Dr. Getta Evenkowski, the top rated Polish doctor in the world.  I’m not sure if I’m completely comfortable with a woman having access to my Wazzo and the fact she will be manipulating a 6’ long device through my colon butt it’s too late now.  It’s at this point, I start regretting that in past times I did not treat women as kind as they deserved.  I know “woman talk” and it might have gotten around.  It’s been documented by CNN that they have some sort of dark site location with a database of men like me.  Oh, boy. 

In comes the anesthesiologist, another woman, Dr. Anne Stickitooya. Ukrainian woman, heavy accent.  Oh boy, Oh boy!!  Now I have one woman who’s going to knock me out and another who’s going to ream me.  Why the heck did I sign up for this?  I know why they said it was free and no one turns down free.  I knew I should have done my homework, even though I never did when I was a kid because it's biting me in the butt now.  As my FXW likes to say, imbecile!  Dr. Anne goes through what’s going to happen once I’m wheeled into the surgical room all the while I sense she is lying through her crooked, yellow teeth.  She leaves with a slight smirk on her face, a face only Steven King would love. 

Either FXW is on to something or I’m she has been talking to the hospital since they issued me this ID Card.  She is a strong believer in passive negative eugenics which condones in the institutionalizing of people deemed to be insane or mentally defective to isolate them and prevent their unwanted reproduction. 

FXW does not throw out the imbecile word without purpose. She is using this categorization card in an effort to get rid of me. She is a strong believer in passive negative eugenics which condones the institutionalizing of people deemed to be insane or mentally defective to isolate them and prevent their unwanted reproduction. If I go missing you know who to blame or thank.

Hospital ID

Hospital ID

Either FXW is on to something or she has been talking to hospital since they issued me this ID card. She is a believer in passive negative eugenics which condones the institutionalizing of people deemed to be insane or mentally defective to isolate them and prevent their unwanted reproduction

Getting close now.  A male nurse, Gar, comes to get me.  Not sure if Gar is short for something but I don’t like the fact that some huge guy is also going to be in the room.  He seems gentle enough in spite of his 7’ – 3” frame and size 23 shoes not to mention his 7’ – 9” wingspan.  I can only think, why nursing?  Could you not shoot a basketball?  I mean, at that size, how hard it to “Put the ball in the hole Chief”.  I really hope no one yells that out let alone “Bring out gimp” before I’m put under.  Despite my meditations, I’m bothered by the fact that we are running late and Gar tells me they often get behind for this procedure.  I’m starting to like him, I think?  Anyway, I’m pushed into the room and I’m greeted by more people I don’t know, all of them smiling.  All I can think of is the line from Mel Brooks History of the World – “Rook jumps the Queen”.  Nothing butt bright lights, surgical devices, and electronics.  Heart rate spikes to 188.  I think it’s time for them to “Get Personal”.   

It’s Getting Personal, Part IV - Their Going In 

So here I am, the moment of truth or trust or something.  Whichever it is, I’m now surrounded by complete strangers and they are about to put me under.  However, before that happens, another nurse, Mosi Totuchme, a fine looking Samoan guy puts me on my side and lays open my antique surgical smock exposing my nicely shaped ass to the world. It’s at this time that I am so grateful for having gotten drunk in Indiana some 20 years ago and did the logical thing, hit a tattoo parlor off of Interstate 94, Exit 12.  I’m sure you have seen it.  It did not make sense at the time butt it does now especially with the late change of doctors and my fear she might not be as familiar with the procedure as my first choice.   Its best just to post a picture of my tattoo since a picture speaks a thousand words, maybe more in this instance.  I’m not sure if you’re Christian or not, butt this is solid proof that miracles do happen.  Now you will know that my God is God or at least getting drunk can be fruitful. 

So now that I’m more comfortable knowing divine intervention is in play and someone is looking over me, I realize that I’m not the only patient in the room.  Turns out, Dr. Evenkowski, studied the techniques of Henry Ford Medical School.  She’s running a gosh darn assembly line thus raking in much more money than the average doctor who works on one person at a time.  My heart rate is maxing out at this point, butt again what can I do?  It’s way too late to back out. 

Just before they put me under I meet Dr. Getta Evenkowski for the first time.  Even though this is the first time I meet her, I’m guessing it’s going to go like a Tinder date, fast.  No old school waiting for the 2nd or crucial 3rd date.  Right at it, no questions asked and intimacy be damned.  

Here comes the gas.  Fortunately, I did not hear any of the comments I feared as mentioned in my last post before I was put under.  Unfortunately, just as I dozed off I thought I heard, “Fire in the hole”.  Hopefully, just the anesthesia talking.  That’s it, I’m out.  No pain, no recollection of anything until I wake up in the recovery room.  A physical recovery room not a mental recovery room, which will come later.  That gas is great.  It should be standard issue anytime something bad happens to you.  Puff, Puff out goes the lights and any memories of bad things that happened to you are gone.  Psychiatrists will be out of business in no time at all. 

Even though I don’t know what happened once I was put under, I knew that a 6’ flexible wire with a camera on the end just took a trip through colon alley.  As I wake up I don’t feel any pain in “That” area, I don’t see any redness or signs of bleeding.  Just as I’m letting out a sigh of relief the proctologist (Greek for the study of the rear quarters) comes in and hands me a rape kit.  She’s screwing me around, right?  I mean how can you be a proctologist and not have a demented sense of humor?  These are people who spent 100’s of thousands of dollars on medical school and countless years studying medicine and then they choose to explore and focus on the anus and rectum.  I think they should at least have to pass an extensive secret service background check before they get their license because this is not normal decision making.   So the evil, Dr. Getta Evenkowski, does have a sense of humor and was kidding, I think because she never did take back the rape kit. 

Let the recovery begin.  I’m on easy street now.  Laying there coming out of the daze of anesthesia is awesome.  I guessing this is how it felt at Woodstock.  The only thing keeping me from getting out of here now is farting my ass off.  Yep, that’s right, you are encouraged by everyone that walks by you to fart.  Don’t hold back, let it fly they tell you.  In fact, you don’t get out unless you do.  It seems a small little Asian nurse, Fang-Hua (Japanese translation, Fragrant Flower), by the desk is in charge of monitoring the recovering patient's farts.  Every time I catch her eyes she yells out loud in her Asian accent “You fart yet!” or maybe it was “Wax Brow, only $10 extra”, not sure since it was muffled by the anesthesia.  I guess I’m not very good at this because so far I’m not able to whip up a fart like my teenage sons.  I should have brought a whoopee cushion just so I could get my ass out of here sooner.  Eventually, I lie to Fang-Hua about farting and she put my release in motion. It gets better, I basically get a prescription to sit on the couch and watch sports for the next 48 hours. Ok, I altered the prescription just like I use to alter my report card.  It really was for only 24 hours.  It says I need to take it easy, now I can follow those instructions, no problem.  FXW is a Saint and picks me up since driving is forbidden during recovery.  I promptly present her with my prescription to lay around and do nothing and ignores the wry smile on my face.  However, my glee about my lazy pass is shot down slightly with FXW's retort of “You’ve had a lazy pass for the last eighteen years”.  Ah, the joys of marriage, it never ends.   

I did my two days of lazy with no concerns and got a clean bill of health.  Speaking of a clean bill, I know that this procedure will not be free as my health insurance company promised.  I'm sure that the Healthcare and Hospital executives decided on the 19th hole of a golf course how much to charge, what's covered etc. so as to benefit them the most.  Based on the fact they wheeled me out to the lobby in a, I shit you not, Michael Graves designer wheelchair ($2,500 vs. $350 for a Standard Wheelchair), I will soon be bending over again.  At least I rolled out in style! 

the 'ted striker' designer model

the 'ted striker' designer model

A couple days later I get a voicemail message from the Doctor's office.  I’m a little nervous about what they found since I had a polyp five years ago and since then I have had a lot of stuff rammed up my wazzo, so who knows what they found.  Here is the voicemail verbatim.  What you don’t get is the somber tone it was delivered in.  “Good morning Mr. Kinsloe, this is Badnusa with Dr. Getta Evenkowski office, the gastroenterologist here at the Christian Science Nosocomial Center Hospital.  We’re calling just to inform you that Dr. Getta Evenkowski WOULD LIKE YOU TO REPEAT YOUR COLONOSCOPY AGAIN……,(ok, this is where there seemed like a long pause, my heart rate shot up to 180 and I mentally used four letter words at a rate of 50 per second), in 10 years here at the hospital.  If you have any questions call us at the office.”  Yeah, I have a question; WTF are you waiting until the 41st word of a 57-word message to tell me I'm clear?!  I told you Dr. Getta Evenkowski was evil and had it out for me.  I’m sure she personally wrote this dialog and directed her office to F me around one last time for kicks.   Anyway, now I don’t give a shit, no polyps. Yee Haa at least that’s what I said, FXW used some type of four letter word that I’m now really familiar with and it begins with an S.  

Ok, I know what you really want to know.  Did they find anything up my Wazzo and if they did what was it?  Nothing, not a thing, whew! 

I would like to pass on this PSA in honor of my friend, Megan, who was diagnosed with early onset high stage colon cancer and had gone through real hell fighting it and recently lost that battle. Rest in Peace.

Truth be known, the whole process was a walk in the park.  The drink was not bad, its consequences were nothing and the procedure itself is uneventful since you are put under. So take that journey when the doctors tell you too, especially if you consider the alternative of ending up with some type of colon cancer.  A couple of links to info are below.








It’s All About Me, Me, Me, Me, Me.  Who the heck is the Bob behind and do you really want to know?  Anyway………

My name is Bob and I’ve been told I joke too much.  The naming of my website came from my trip to Nepal when after the first couple of days trekking to the Mt. Everest Base Camp our Sherpa Guide, Limbu, confided in my friend the following; “Bob is a nice guy but Bob Joke Too Much”.  Once he started to understand and/or tolerate my sarcasm (maybe 21 days in) we became good friends and supporters of his guide business.  So it all worked out but now my friend tends to remind me of that quote when I go too far with my satirical humor.

Anyway......I was born a poor black child of a sharecropper on the front porch of my home in the Mississippi Delta.  Not buying that?  OK, just a middle class, blue collar kid in an all-white, Irish Catholic neighborhood boarding the Southwest side of Chicago.  One of seven children raised by a normal Mom and Dad who obviously believed the Catholic Church recommendation of the Rhythm Method as an effective form of contraception.  My Wife, two boys and I live in Chicago.

Observing and experiencing life since 1963.  I have been extensively educated at Father Mulsoff Industrial School for Incorrigible Kid’s, Brother Duffin High School for Vulnerable Boys and The Institute for Applied Nonsense.  Note that even though the 1st two schools had known molesters as “teachers”, I was never once approached for molestation in spite of the fact that I was very susceptible, small, skinny and weak boy.  Due to current litigation against the Catholic Church for discrimination, that’s all I can say on the subject.

I have no qualifications for being a writer.  However, this will not stop me from publishing many of the yearly 17,000 thoughts that pop into my mind on the website and anywhere else. I will cover topics including parenting, gun control, donkeys, idiots, politics, religion, racism and any other controversial subjects I find worthy in an attempt of provoking laughs, stimulating deep thinking and/or just pissing off the politically correct with my satirical prose.  My thoughts and opinions will appear on my website and all other social media outlets no matter how much a waste of time until I die.