Last night I had a fine time at Alvin and Jenny’s house. We played a rousing round of Dr. Quack. According to Alvin, one can suffer mightily from Driver’s elbow, a heartbreaking condition of the joint of the arm that does nothing while one is driving. I am in a dire state of vomitola. My poor Tract has been bothering me and I am finally going ’round to the doctor today. I do hope I have to swallow barium or have a colonoscopy, as I know there is nothing you eager little piranha will appreciate more than pictures of my supple bottom. The other good thing is that I will be granted entrance into Jenny’s new religion, The Diagnostics. But I have a long way to go to rival the founding members, who have suffered allergies to snail larvae, and a syndrome that paralyzes half your face in a stroke-like manner, but is easily treated with two days of antibiotics.
Here’s hoping I have Crone’s Disease!