ToroHo sent me a link. It was very mean of her.

It was a link to the book you see pictured over there: An Enema, A Birthday Spanking, A Love Story. The title of the actual paperback seems to read “When the Jonquils Bloom Again: Book One,” but the Amazon.com title is all enemas and spanking. Is there a better way to catch people’s attention as they look for something to read? Spankings and poo? Sign me up!

No, wait, don’t. I downloaded the Kindle sample (Kindle: Nom nom..What?!) and, well, in the interest of complete honesty, I went to the ladies’ room to read it. Here is all you need to know about this book:

Part the first: freeform poetry that’s not quite prose and not quite any good either about jonquils (aka daffodils) blooming in the snow, and something about ballet and dancing and flowers: “Life on ice, flowers in snow, blossoms in six petal tutus with matching trumpet leotards, jonquils, also known as daffodils, dance in the cold wind…. I am excited. My colon rumbles, wakes me with a familiar tune.”

No, that’d be part the second: IBS. Part dancing flowers, and part poo. Seems the first person narrator has irritable bowel syndrome, and the sample vacillates like a person doing the pee pee dance between rumination of spring flowers on frozen ground dancing with tutus, and chronicles of desperately needing to use the toilet and being unable to do so.

The narrator wants to wake her husband so he can give her an enema, but he’s old, he doesn’t feel well, and he’s sleeping.

Then there’s more about the dancing jonquils:

I watch my great granddaughter grow, dance a slow dance with her among the jonquils, and then hurry to the bathroom, my intestines rumbling.

Then the narrator jumps back in time a number of years, and all plot lines run through her colon. Her son enlisted in the army during what I believe is WWII, and the stress of it causes a new host of IBS symptoms. Then some ruminations about the Sun King, the French revolution, and how the cycle of contipation and diarrhea cause her to understand the political and social issues that erupted into a violent revolution:

The masses, deprived of dignity and toilets, deprive the royals of life itself when the suppression of constipation turns to the diarrhea of revolution.

According to the introduction, the author was inspired by a woman who was obsessively pleasured by both spankings and enemas, and this fictional first person account is based upon but not meant to be a literal interpretation of this woman. Whomever she is, I hope she’s pleased. I would be mortified, particularly by the story of a tour of an ancient French castle, colon-a-rumblin’, and the guide’s explanation of the latrine.

The narrator uses the ancient latrine after the party moves on, and while doing so mentally aligns herself with her bowel-irritated ancestors (the condition is hereditary, she wishes the reader to know many, many times). Then she unwittingly shits all over a laborer working to restore the castle. When the group is chastised by the tour guide for the indignity of crapping all over an unsuspecting man working on the wall beneath by saying, “Our workmen, peasants, are accustomed to being defecated on by the elite of our society, less so foreign tourists,” the narrator turns red and runs away, divulging her guilt to the rest of the party.

Then, the account of her lovingly administered enema in the hotel: “Why doesn’t my husband talk to me when I am having an enema?… Is there nothing to say after thousands of times over his knee? Is it because he knows how I feel? Is he leaving me time to go within myself, feel the love, as the water goes within me?”

I think Kenny Loggins’ autobiography details the love inherent in his wife’s giving him a high colonic, something about her love entering him. I wonder if this woman is a Kenny Loggins fan.

Then her husband tells her, mid enema, that she needs to have a life outside of him, their children, and the enema-tastic non-sex. He wants her to get a job. This upsets her.

Each syllable floods a cellar storing the canning jars of my life. Thoughts and beliefs held since childhood float off shelves, float in the muddy water within me.

He’s in her ass, changing her life.

All rivers run through this woman’s colon. I cannot bring myself to read any more. I never thought I’d say this, but the poo metaphor has truly, truly run its course.

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This book is available from Amazon.