Last time I checked, this wasn't Fissures in my Formula

This morning at work I was enjoying a bagel and coffee and minding my own business when a coworker stopped in.

To tell me about her anal fissure.

After she left, I threw up in my garbage can and rocked myself in the corner.

I’m not sure when the world appointed me the gatekeeper of ass stories, but I’d like to step down. I understand that my husband underwent a hemorrhoidectomy and that I shared that information with some people—mainly because they asked, “Oooh, what kind of surgery is Chuck having?” and I couldn’t quickly think of another surgery that would explain why he was unable to poo without screaming — but that was months ago.

I’m not quite sure why my coworkers still feel the need to approach me with things like, “I thought of Chuck over the weekend. I had a hemorrhoid the size of Texas and when I went to the bathroom I almost fell off the toilet it hurt so much.” I don’t appreciate that my husband comes to mind when people move their bowels. If anyone’s going to associate Chuck with shit, it’s going to be me.

Honestly, all this butt suffering has caused me to suffer—from TMAI (Too Much Ass Information). In case I wasn’t clear, I am not head of the Anal Complaint Department. I don’t run the Crack Attack hotline, nor do I speardhead a foundation whose mission is to share people’s posterior plights. Katie Couric is your token celebrity talking head; not Mrs. Mullet (my cause du jour is increasing wine production in Connecticut by 354% and having truckloads delivered to my home and office so I can bathe, frolic and rejoice in its glorious bounty 365 days a year).

So listen. If your hiney is hindering you, contact this group. Or this one. Or this one. Please, please, puhleeze don't send me emails with the subject line "Hot poker in my ass—is that what Chuck had?"

I am not your guy.