I’ve been dealing (aka avoiding) my blog guilt for weeks now, knowing I should drop a line, or ten, to dazzle you with my wisdom. Aside from having none, I’m seriously lacking motivation and inspiration.
I don’t blog just to blog. There’s enough rigamarole in the world already, so unless it’s fun, frivolous and fabulous (and apparently has overwhelming use of alliteration), I’m not having it.
So in an effort to self-excite without forbidden thoughts of Ryan Reynolds, I’ve decided to try something new. Those of you who follow me on Twitter and Facebook know I get a mule kick out of pointless, whimsical information. Each week I shall take the most curiosity-inducing fact I find and share the knowledge wealth with you.
Gracious, people, that’s what I am.
No, really, I’m not just blowing smoke up your ass.
Today’s blog post? The practice of blowing smoke up your ass.
Did you catch that segue? Subtle and brilliant!
The adage comes from the practice of doing exactly that–puffing smoke up your anus. You read that right–up. your. ass!
We’ve taken it to mean someone is putting you on or kissing their way into your good graces, but those crazy Europeans used to play this joke for real, yo! As a medical treatment for various ailments (might I suggest mental disorders? Nothing says batshit like packing your ass full of sulfur on purpose), this was the go to fix.
Yep, the Tobacco enema was pretty hot shit–no pun intended–for quite some time, giving the patient a whole new lease on life.
Take a good, long gander at the Clyster. They rammed this cherry vertical and pumped until your head pulsed like an overworked opium den. The warm smoke was thought to help promote respiration.
Because nothing clears your breathing like a bit o’ exhaust.
Aside from the sadistic good time this must’ve been, doctors used the technique to resuscitate drowning victims or those who had suffocated. Adds a little insult to injury if you ask me.
Prone to convulsions or fits? You were ripe pickings for the tobacco rape. “She’s in a snit! Let’s pump her full of snuff and watch the bitch twitch!”
And let us not forget that smoke has to leave the body–most likely through the same route it entered. So here you are, fresh from an apocalyptic seizure followed by fist-pumping you’ll never forget (and probably paid a small fortune for), and you have to crawl yourself home, crop-dusting all the way.
Talk about secondhand smoke.
But what do I know? I’m no backwoods medical professional. Join me next week for the rousing conclusion of Packing Heat, Anal Style. And I’m not just blowing smoke up your ass.