Last Updated on May 20, 2026 by Michael
Somewhere in America right now, a gastroenterologist is staring at the back of a stranger’s head from a profoundly unflattering angle.
They have heard things. Disturbing things. Quotable things. Things their spouses have not been told about.
Some of those things were said by patients running on one-third sedation, one-third dignity, and one-third leftover Pinot Grigio from the night before the prep started.
The hall of fame for great colonoscopy one-liners exists. So does the hall of shame.
The membrane between them is roughly the thickness of a colonoscope. There is, in other words, a wrong way to do this.
To stay out of the cautionary-tale Slack channel at your local gastroenterology practice, do not — under any anesthesia, any oath, or any full moon — say the following.
1. “Is That All You Got?”
This one is a classic ego-bruiser, and it lands harder than it should.
Your doctor trained for over a decade to thread a four-foot snake camera through the meandering back-roads of a human colon with the calm focus of a sushi chef on his fourth espresso.
Questioning the equipment is rude. Questioning the equipment in front of a nurse named Brenda is unforgivable.
Brenda has seen things. Brenda does not have time for your size kink.
And whatever you do, do not goad the doctor. Goading the doctor is how patients end up unintentionally enrolled in a residency program’s “show and tell” day.
2. “Hey, While You’re Down There — Have You Seen My Car Keys?”
You think you are being charming. You are being approximately 14% less original than a YouTube comment under a wedding-fail compilation.
Every patient on every table in every clinic in every county tries this line, all of them convinced they are the first.
Statistically, the keys are on the couch. The couch where they have always been. The couch you tore apart at 6 a.m. before driving here in mild panic.
Items that have actually gone missing up there, per anecdotal medical chatter: dignity, gym memberships, the will to live, a single AirPod Pro.
Also one very confused gerbil from 1987 that the doctor refuses to discuss.
Your keys are not on the list.
3. “Buy Me Dinner First, You Animal”
This joke has been told. A lot.
The doctor’s grandfather heard it in 1976. From a guy named Earl, who, statistically speaking, is no longer with us.
The DMV is sexier than your colon. The DMV at least has snacks.
4. “Mind If I Sell the Footage?”
The internal landscape of your large intestine is not OnlyFans material, and saying it out loud will not make it so.
There is no thriving subreddit for “wet cave content.” Even if there was, the algorithm would bury it under a 14-year-old’s Minecraft stream and a cat that looks moderately like Hitler.
Your subscribers want abs. Maybe a tasteful tattoo. They do not want a thirty-foot pan through what is, geologically speaking, a damp brown tunnel.
Insurance does not cover the licensing fees, either. Definitely not in HD.
5. “You’re Not the First One in There Today, Are You?”
Implying that your colon is a popular nightclub is one of the few moves capable of making a 50-year-old gastroenterologist’s left eye twitch.
She has been to medical school. She has not been to your therapist. The lifestyle implications need to stay off the table — literally the table you are currently glued to with a paper sheet.
The doctor is also keenly aware that this is, in fact, not her first colon of the day. Reminding her is just helping her get fired.
Brenda is judging you. Brenda has earned the right.
6. “Same Time Next Week, Big Guy?”
A colonoscopy is medically recommended once a decade for adults at average risk, per the American Cancer Society’s screening guidelines.
Suggesting weekly visits implies a level of enthusiasm that no insurance plan in this country is prepared to underwrite, and frankly, no marriage is prepared to survive.
You are propositioning a stranger. With a camera. While sedated. While your spouse reads a six-month-old issue of Golf Digest in the waiting room.
Read the room. You cannot see the room, but read it anyway.
7. “Tip Jar?”
The doctor is not your DoorDash driver.
There is no Square reader on the IV pole. Venmo is not accepted. The smile on the nurse’s face is professional, not performance-related compensation.
That noted, if you do tip, do it in cash. And do it for the nurse who coached you through the prep phone call.
The one who answered when you asked, voice cracking, if Gatorade Red counted.
It did not count.
She knew. She had to break the news. She watched a piece of your soul go out the window. That woman deserves a yacht.
8. “Don’t Tell My Wife About Us”
You have known the doctor for nine minutes. Four of those minutes were spent confirming your date of birth. Two of them were spent confirming, again, that you took the prep.
“Us” is doing a lot of heavy lifting.
The propofol has not fully kicked in, but apparently your boundaries clocked out hours ago and are already at the Olive Garden ordering an unlimited soup-and-salad.
The doctor will, in fact, tell your wife. Not in the way you are worried about.
In writing. With charts. On a follow-up call she is legally required to schedule.
Your wife will read every word of that letter. Your wife will read it twice. Your wife now knows what propofol does to you, and she has notes.
9. “I Love You”
This one is almost a freebie, so consider this a public service announcement.
Propofol turns grown adults into open emotional faucets.
A gastroenterologist on a Tuesday is basically a licensed bartender — they have heard the confessions, the divorce timelines, the cousin’s secret recipe for pulled pork, the unsolicited reviews of marriage.
Telling the doctor “I love you” as you swim back up from sedation is the medical equivalent of texting your ex at 2 a.m. and then drowning your phone in the toilet.
It happens, and it is well-documented in the medical literature. It is also why nobody lets you Uber yourself home alone.
Just understand that the doctor does not love you back. The doctor loves their golden retriever, their good knee, and the fact that their last patient of the day had cancelled before lunch.
You are not in the running. You are barely in the lobby.
The Quiet Genius of Saying Absolutely Nothing
A colonoscopy is one of the rare medical procedures where keeping your mouth shut accomplishes more than any answer your brain could possibly produce.
The doctor knows what they are doing. The nurses have heard every variation of every joke twice, in stereo, sometimes from a chiropractor.
Your job is small.
Wear the gown. Try not to make Brenda’s day any longer than it already is. Brenda is owed a quiet shift.
And whatever post-anesthesia confession is bubbling up through the propofol fog — about your marriage, your taxes, the toaster oven you stole from your last roommate in 2014 — let it stay in the fog.
The fog is the only part of this procedure that does not require a follow-up appointment.
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