I used to have a bad terrible, terrible habit of reading, doing crossword puzzles, playing games on my mobile, etc., while I was on the can.

I used to enjoy sneaking away for a good 10, 15 minutes of my day, alone with my thoughts (and crossword book) and the porcelain throne. The last few weeks, however, I’d grown to dread confronting that looming beast of a seat: the combination of poor diet and excessive sitting had manifested itself as a thrombosed hemorrhoid.

After a few days of anal agony, I made an appointment with my PCP, who prescribed a few things (none of which seemed to work). He instructed me to let him know if things didn’t improve in a few days. I did.

Which is what brings us to today. Sometime before Christmas, I’d made an appointment with a colorectal surgeon about a week and a half out. This morning, the doctor remarked, “What a way to start the day!

What a way, indeed.

Fortunately, after a painful injection of novocaine and a few painless slices and dices with various implements, the doctor removed the thrombosis and tucked a piece of gauze ‘twixt my cheeks. He handed me a post-op procedures list and a prescription for Vicodin.

Now, even doped up with a couple of pills, I can feel my hinder parts beginning to let me know — in most ungentle terms — how displeased they are with me. I’d try to reason with them, but a), it is my fault they’re in the shape they’re in, and b), who talks to his butt?

The moral of this post is this: Pooping is no time to read or engage in any other recreational activities.