I’m Cologuard, the box you poop into. I’m a noninvasive way to detect altered DNA in your stool to find 92% of colon cancer and 56% of your maladaptive personality disorders, even in early stages. False positives may occur, but what do I care? You’re the asshole taking a shit in a box.
Who takes a cute little box with a face and limbs and rips him open to insert poop? I’ll tell you who–people with problems. Which is why I’m now equipped to tell you what’s wrong with your personality. And believe me, there is something wrong with you. You’re pooping in a box.
Henry, you overblown whalefish. No one cares about your poop. Not when you announced to your spouse and grown children (and your daughter’s new boyfriend, Rory) that your poop is the biggest and best sample ever mailed back to Cologuard—ever. No one cared when you asked Rory if he had ever sent in his own sample, and if so, asked just how many inches it was (except maybe Rory cared a little). Remember when you waltzed into the UPS Store, holding your box, and stepped in front of the ten other people waiting in line? Everyone cheered when the UPS guy told you to go to the end of the line, and when the balding man with no neck called, “Hey, douchebag, get to the end. Who do you think you are?” People did not care when you politely responded, “I’m sending in a history-making stool.” (Get out while you can, Rory.)
I watched you collect your sample, Marsha. You know what I’m talking about–leaving the bathroom door open so your niece, Zoe, your brother, Zach, your Threadfin Butterfly fish, Gucci, and his friend the Flame Angelfish, Hermés, all knew what you were doing. Did you really have to end by taking all your clothes off, belting out Destiny Child’s I’m a Survivor, and twirling me around the house? As if that weren’t embarrassing enough, the way you wrapped me–with pink and purple polka dotted paper, the heart stickers, and the inclusion of “XOXO” on the shipping label, took me over the edge. That was until you kissed the UPS clerk on the lips thanking him profusely for taking this life-saving sample to your doctor so you don’t die a horrible death. I, for one, did not buy into your sobs as you left your poop behind.
Butch, why did you feel the need to cut me open with a switchblade? I mean, really? Judging from the lumpiness of what you dropped in there, you clearly eat rocks or sticks or shit from the woods during the satanic bloodletting rituals you perform. The way you staggered into the UPS store, parking your car on the sidewalk because the nearest spot was too far away, was appalling. And when you asked that person in line to switch boxes with you? What the hell was that? You afraid of something? Like maybe they’d detect the fact that you are an asshole who uses the name “Butch” instead of Elroy? Yeah, that’s right, Elroy, I know who you really are. Don’t deny it–I know you stole money from the McDonald’s you worked at. Remember the job that you thought you didn’t need, the one you skipped shifts at, the one that fired you, and rehired you, and then fired you again? Yeah, those missing twenties were noticed by more than just the shift manager and the police.
But, Henry, Marsha, and Butch, I might be wrong about you. I don’t give a shit. I occasionally surprise the shit out of a UPS delivery man on a hot day when a loose dog rips me out of poor Bob’s hands. But I never give a shit. That’s your job.
Laura holds an MFA from Miami University (in Ohio). She has a forthcoming memoir “Mosaic” (Unsolicited Press, March 2025). Other publications include essays and poems in Thin Air Magazine, The Avalon Literary Review, Ligeia Magazine, Vita Brevis Press, 805 Lit + Art, Stonecoast Review, The Writer’s Chronicle, among others. She resides in Oxford, OH with her husband, daughter, and pug Rocky. You can find her at www.lauragaddis.com