Wednesday 22 August 2012

crabbydad - You Know What Really Sticks in My Craw?

 

Your email updates, powered by FeedBlitz

 

 
Here are the latest updates for dadgregator@gmail.com


 

"crabbydad" - 1 new article

  1. You Know What Really Sticks in My Craw?
  2. More Recent Articles
  3. Search crabbydad

You Know What Really Sticks in My Craw?

(Warning: This was written yesterday, while still under the effects of "twilight" anesthesia.)

Be careful 'cuz I am now bugged. I'm wired for sound. In fact, this post is probably being recorded as I type, so comment at your own risk. Oh, I'm also still doped up on funny juice, so forgive the flrb mmrshn grm.

This morning, I had a "procedure" foisted upon me called the "Bravo pH Test" and boy, is my larynx tired. It's part of the endless barrage of tests invented by doctors to frighten, humiliate and, ultimately, relieve me of the spawnages' college money.

The Old Lady and I drove to the "surgery center" at the crackhole of dawn, I filled out some paperwork absolving everyone in the state of Michigan of my inevitable death, and then I was told to strip down to the waist, slip into a backwards shirt and put a shower cap on. It was nice to have a nurse order me to do that instead of the Old Lady, for a change.

Then they jabbed a needle in my hand (my hand!), rolled me into the surgery room and put what I think was a ball-gag in my mouth. Those stomach doctors are are some kinky-ass mofos (they put the "enter" in gastroenterology). Then a guy who looked a lot like Joe from the Three Stooges came in and told me what kind of roofies he was going to slip into my drip and it was off to fairyville.

When I woke up, one second later, I was in a different room, the Old Lady was standing over me with that "How did my life become this?" look I've grown to know so well, the ball-gag was gone and someone had drawn a Rollie Fingers mustache on my face in permanent Sharpie. Oh, and it felt like a homunculus was inside my esophagus, pinching the fuck out of it.

Basically, they snaked a tube down my throat (not a euphemism) and attached a small(ish) capsule to the wall of my esophagus that transmits a (most-likely lethal) signal to a little (genitalia sterilizing) receiver I have to wear around my neck that makes me look like a low-rent Darth Vader. There are three buttons on the receiver that I'm supposed to press whenever I have a specific sensation. There's one for "reflux," one for "regurgitation" and I think the third one dispenses a Pez out of my throat.

I'm supposed to wear the monitor for 24 hours and then turn it back in to the doc's office. Then, apparently, the capsule is supposed to release its death-grip and detach from my throat in "7 to 10 days." Seven to ten days?! I'll never fucking make it. I'll die from "pinched esophagus syndrome" by day three. No, if it doesn't detach after 48 hours, I'm grabbing the tongs off our barbecue and extracting that fucker myself.

Eating has been fairly brutal. Toast was a bad idea. Chips? No fucking way. Even chicken noodle soup felt like I was swallowing chicken-flavored fiberglass. So far, the only thing I can eat without wincing is ice cream so, fuck it, 48 hours of ice cream it'll have to be.

Five bucks says I gain 40 pounds and end up with "the diabeetus."



FeedBlitz Top Slot
powered byad choices

More Recent Articles


FeedBlitz Secondary Slot
powered byad choices



 
Your requested content delivery powered by FeedBlitz, LLC, 9 Thoreau Way, Sudbury, MA 01776, USA. +1.978.776.9498

 

Tuesday 21 August 2012

crabbydad - Mr. Commode's Wild Ride

 

Your email updates, powered by FeedBlitz

 

 
Here are the latest updates for dadgregator@gmail.com


 

"crabbydad" - 1 new article

  1. Mr. Commode's Wild Ride
  2. More Recent Articles
  3. Search crabbydad

Mr. Commode's Wild Ride


The Old Lady found a frog on the toilet seat in our bathroom. The bathroom off of our bedroom. On the second story of our house. A frog.

What the shit, indeed.

There are many theories as to just how the fuck this wily amphibian made its way onto our crapper...
  • It secreted itself inside either my, or the Old Lady's, asshole whilst we weren't paying attention. Say, when I was bending over and reaching into the garden to pick a plump tomato, or when the Old Lady crouched down on the sidewalk to retrieve a quarter. Then, while we were getting ready for bed, it hopped out of one of its sphincter-y sanctuaries and onto its toilet-y perch.
  • While we were walking the dog, our froggy fugitive climbed aboard the dog's back and traveled, rodeo-style, into the house, up the stairs and lassoed itself onto the shitter.
  • It hopped into my mouth while I was sleeping, survived a nightmarish rollercoaster ride through my colon, was blasted into the toilet bowl during my morning constitutional, then dredged itself up out of the muck and collapsed on the seat.
  • It got washed down a sewer drain, swam upstream, weaving in and out of rocketing turdpedoes, into our sump pump, where it then crawled, Andy Dufresne-style, up the plumbing pipes and onto the throne.
  • It's always been there and we just never noticed it.
I'm leaning toward the second theory because I just like the image of a frog riding a dog. Maybe I should make a little saddle for the pup and strap it onto his back before his walks. I could fashion it out of a piece of twine and a Pringle. We could get a whole stable of rodeo frogs, nay, Todeo frogs. We could charge admission and I could make the spawnage dress up as clowns and hide behind big barrels as the dog rocketed around the yard, desperately trying to eat both the frog and the Pringle off of his back.

This might just be the retirement opportunity I've been waiting for. To the pond!!!



FeedBlitz Top Slot
powered byad choices

More Recent Articles


FeedBlitz Secondary Slot
powered byad choices



 
Your requested content delivery powered by FeedBlitz, LLC, 9 Thoreau Way, Sudbury, MA 01776, USA. +1.978.776.9498