EDITORIAL -   My youngest daughter's doctor needed a “stool” sample that we would have to transport to the Madera Community Hospital’s laboratory within an hour entering the world. I don’t really want to get into the details how we had to get the sample in the cup. I am just happy that it was solid but concerned that it was green. Is that to much information?

Well I hit the road with her sample in hand, well the cup in hand, and made my way to the hospital. I called my ex-wife who took my daughter to the doctor to find out exactly where this cup of green poop had to go.

The one time love of my life said, “The doctor said take it to the lab on the first floor by x-ray”. It sounded like she had a smile on her face knowing that I was in for an entertaining evening at MCH. I can’t prove it but there must have been a reason she didn’t volunteer to take this crap herself.

So I parked my car in front of the hospital and made my way to the lab. I was met by a woman who was either Filipino or Hispanic. It didn’t really matter. Either way I couldn’t understand what the heck she was saying. “You need to rediturd” she kept saying.

“What?” What the hell is a rediturd? I had a cup full of green turd but I had no idea what a rediturd was.

“You need to rediturd. You go to ER and rediturd”, she said. I asked her if she meant REGISTER. “Yes rediturd. That is what I said”. She actually looked at me like I was the one that didn’t understand English.

So I grabbed the cup of duece and made my way through the cafeteria towards the ER. As I passed a few ladies eating salads, I wondered what they would think if they knew what was in this cup that was just a few feet from their food.

In the ER waiting room, which was packed, they rushed me and my daughter’s number two cup into the number one registration room. License and insurance card out, the lady behind the window asked me if I wanted to remove my ex-wife from the emergency contacts. I told her absolutely not and in fact if this poop goes “code blue” I wanted her called right away and every means possible used to resuscitate it.

Not a chuckle, not a laugh, not even a twitch. If she hadn’t been about eight months pregnant I would have swore she wouldn’t know a good time if it tickled her butt, but from her state of hugeness she obviously knew how to get down get funky.

She gave me my license and insurance card back with a wrist band. I told her I didn’t think this particular sample of fecal matter had a wrist but I would do my best to put it on.

Again, no smile.

Now I had to go back to the laboratory. I was sure I was going to get another lesson in English but when I went in the “rediturd lady” was no where to be found. Despite giving them a sheet full of labels, I had to handwrite on the cup when the poop popped out and my daughter’s name. I think at this point they were screwing with me.

On my way out and most of the way home I laughed my ass off. As I realized I was the only one that found humor in this situation, I found it even funnier.

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A TRUE STORY