Whether the surgeon general has issued a warning about this, I don't know.
I'm telling you for your own good.Don't let them swing a scalpel behind your back.
Which is to say I not only am a member of the H Club for men. I may be president. I had a hemorrhoidectomy.
Now for anyone hesitant hearing about this, let me remind you: It is a tradition and duty for Americans to share surgical misery.
It was the great society visionary, Lyndon Johnson, who once lifted up his shirt on the White House lawn and showed his polyps-operation scar.
Listen, when Benson wrote about nasal-passage rehab in these very pages, he was only keeping a sacred trust.
Given a choice of writing about something meaningful and taking the easy way out with a cheap personal experience, any writer will do the honorable thing and cop a my-life-as-a-dog column every time.
But in keeping with Lyndon's and Lee's fearless leads, I must say I have been dreading writing about this for 20 years. Ever since a Kansas City doc advised me to do anything to avoid it.
"It's like poking a stick in your eye," he told me.
He was the same guy who cut on George Brett when the Kansas City Royals baseball star required the Big H during a Yankees playoff.
We heard reports of George swinging at nurses emerging from surgery. He said he'd never felt anything like the H Bomb.
When I asked my guy, J.P. Hughes, the Zorro of this procedure around here, what the discomfort would be on a scale of 1 to 10, he got one of those looks docs can get and said, "Nine."
I tell you this, of course, not only to inform the proper authorities where to send my purple heart but to score some quick sympathy. When you're in your whiney recovery period, you take it where you can get it.
This also is to report that this thing is all it's cracked down to be.
It's not just the rear-end adjustment. It's the front-end alignment. I had two catheterizations. Lake Mead had built up in there and Hoover Dam was bursting. I did the Michael Flatley river dance outside Cottonwood Emergency, waiting for a room to clear.
But heck, things are going OK now. They tell me I'll walk again. I may even sit. I could someday eat something besides potato soup. I may mount the porcelain throne without screeching the Valkyries from Wagner.
But one thing I may not recover from. Digital TV. We live on a mountain without cable access. The small dish was installed when I got home from the hospital.
Here's a way I've discovered to lose your mind.
You can watch "Goof Troop" followed by "Quack Pack" on the Toon Channel. You can catch "Serious Skin Care" on HBN, where two women tirelessly discuss stuff to smear on.
Which is not to be confused with Black Quartz Hour on QVC.
One woman: "It's so black."
Second woman: "It's so dark."
No darker than the doings on Some Soap.
Woman to a man: "Roy, I can honestly say Gary means nothing to me."
Then there's my favorite channel, SAH 224. No matter when I consult the on-screen program guide, it says 224 is "Off Air."
We need this. A whole channel beamed down from a tin can in space devoted to blankness.
At least it's more interesting than the Spurs-Knicks series.
Now if you'll excuse me, I leave you with Brett's quote when he left the hospital.
"All my troubles are behind me."
No nurses were injured in producing this column.
Send e-mail to firstname.lastname@example.org, fax (801) 237-2121. Gib Twyman's column runs Saturdays.