The human body requires a thorough checkup from time to time to see if anything is amiss or if something has worn out and needs to be replaced. It’s very similar to owning a car.

It had been over a decade since my last colonoscopy, as my primary care physician frequently noted. I was long past due for my 50,000-mile checkup.

Everyone I’ve spoken to regarding colonoscopies agrees that the prep is the worst part of the experience. Back when I had my first colonoscopy, the prep part involved drinking a literal gallon of a substance that was the consistency of camel snot. I’m not sure but suspect that also tasted like camel snot.

I recently had my second colonoscopy and found that the prep part had changed remarkably.

Gone was the gallon of camel snot. I was instead instructed to take eight over-the-counter laxative pills during a three-hour period.

One such pill can easily unstop any normal human being; eight is enough to clean out a mature elephant.

These pills were followed by an entire container an over-the-counter powder that is used to induce “regularity” in the digestive system. One dose produces regularity; consuming an entire container produces rocket propellant. You have to hang onto the toilet seat with both hands.

The good news was that I could mix the powder with half a gallon of any clear liquid of my choosing. I chose apple juice based on the fact that I like apple juice. After being forced to down half a gallon of the stuff over a relatively short period of time, I would be happy if I never saw another glass of apple juice ever again.

This combination of OTC medications had their intended effect. I was visiting the bathroom so frequently that the apple juice didn’t even have a chance to get warm.

I left the bathroom door slightly ajar during one of my innumerable nocturnal visits. The door swung open and in sauntered our cat, Sparkles. I don’t care to have an audience while situated in such a personal and vulnerable position even if it’s just a feline who can’t report on how silly I looked.

Sparkles meowed at me a couple of times as if she were asking, “What are you doing? Don’t you know that it’s time for me to be petted?”

From my precarious perch, I did my best to shoo the cat away. “Get out!” I commanded. “I don’t stand around and watch you when you use your litter box!”

Other than not getting any sleep and wishing that we had splurged on extra-soft toilet paper, the prep procedure went well. I reported to the medical facility in the morning, totally sleep-deprived and about five pounds lighter than the day before.

A parade of various medical personnel came to my hospital room. Each of them asked for my name and birth date and what we were up to that day. I could only conclude that there has been a problem with people impersonating their way into colonoscopies.

I was eventually wheeled into the procedure room. After the anesthesiologist introduced himself, I said to him, “I’ll have a whiskey sour, please.”

“I have something that’s a lot better than that,” he replied. And that’s all I recall. The next thing I knew, I was back in my original hospital room where my wife had been waiting for me. I don’t remember several minutes of conversation that I’d just had with her and my attending nurse. Modern pharmaceuticals are a wondrous thing.

Speaking of modern improvements, my medical provider now has an internet portal where patients can log on and view the incomprehensible gobbledygook that are test results and doctor’s reports. Patients can thus read medical terms that are totally foreign to them, enabling them to immediately begin to worry about what any of it could mean.

My report read, “After adequate sedation had been achieved, patient’s lower digestive tract filled with so much carbon dioxide that he began to resemble a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day balloon.”

That’s not true; the medical jargon contained in the report isn’t as remotely fun as that. It’s almost as if the report were written by space aliens. My theory is that that much of medical school involves making up important-sounding words that nobody can understand.

I was soon cleared to go home. A nurse came to my room and gave me discharge orders along with a folder filled with information. The folder also contained photos of my innards that were taken during the procedure.

This is such a cool development. Because patients can now add Polaroids of their hemorrhoids to their family albums.

— Jerry’s book, “Dear County Agent Guy” can be found at www.workman.com and in bookstores nationwide.