Tag Archives: tract

Two, two, two days later

Than the last time I posted. Isn’t that amazing? Soon it will be the future. And…um. I am listening to Devo. The internet is in such a good mood lately, probably because it’s spring and the internet is getting mad laid. Just speculating. And maybe the internet got its hands on some painkillers as well.

Have you noticed how diligent I’ve been with taking my B-complex vitamins? Yeah, I am impressed too. My hooves and coat have never been shinier. I am not even going to taunt you by telling you that my gums don’t bleed when I floss. Booyeah.

Yesterday I was talking to Northern Virginia, and I put NoVa on mute because it was the part of the meeting that didn’t concern me, which is to say most of the meeting. Luckily I am a meeting cobra, and when something does concern me, I will strike. Wa-pow. And I had Oprah on, and Oprah was talking about pooping. This is one of my favorite topics evah. She had a doctor on the royal dais next to her, and he lifted up a medical-looking towel from a table and unveiled a normal colon and a bloated colon. That’s right, if you persist in eating a terrible diet, your colon will distend and never bounce back. A colon can handle a lot, but we all have our limits. There were other good tips about pooping too. You would think this comes naturally, but not to some people. I was really pleased to have my own output validated by a professional opinion.

It’s almost time to shriek Chinese at the people upstairs. I can’t wait. You see a woman on the street, and you wish to approach her.

Hospital Johnny

In a grim display of foreshadowing, I watched the grade B Zombie Nightmare last night. This morning found me arising at an unholy hour to go to the radiologist. I found myself sitting in a little Kabine with a bench and a mirror and a Barium shake. I lay on a table that tilted me like a bottle of pop to shake my contents. The cute technician took photos of my small intestine. He let me keep the plastic barium shake bottles with the built in crazy straw. They have pictures of Tracts on them. I wiped the chalk from my mouth and put on lipgloss. I think the pale blue hospital johnny suits me.

I want to go blonde and learn to play the harp.

I want to do portraits of all my friends ( I am working on a smashing one!)

I have learned something valuable- on the train, people tend to give a person room when they are drinking out of a bottle with a picture of a Tract on it.

A narsty bank teller refused to give me money on false pretenses, and the replacement card still has not arrived, leaving me stone broke at lunchtime after having to fast before my appt.

This evening I came home to be washed in bill collection threats- they toppled menacingly from my tray over my head, like a bucket of pig’s blood on prom night.

The last thing I consumed before my pre-radiology fast was a flute of champagne.


Lambchop gets a Forcefeeding

The agonies of my Tract continue, and so tomorrow I have to endure a battery of tests. I have to fast until morning, at which point I will show up to the office, sample proudly in hand, and be forcefed some kind of dairy concoction until my liver bursts. Oh wait, thats foie gras. No, I will then be bled for two hours. I wonder when they are going to bring out the leeches?

This procedure is utterly pointless, as there is NO WAY I am lactose intolerant. Me and cheese go way back. We like the same things! For a time I was trying to learn how to say “I like cheese” in as many languages as possible, merely to generate variety in the expressions of love that I whisper to Cheese. This actually came in handy when I got caught stealing cheese from the dining hall where I was pizza girl. When asked by the manager what I was doing carrying cheese with me into the coatroom, I simply repeated “I like cheese…” to his every query until his jowls quivered and his face turned red. He eventually gave up. Wouldn’t you?

After all the starving and bleeding, I get to stagger all starved and bled to WORK, where a colossal mountain of someone else’s failure awaits me in great papery dunes.

But it ain’t all bad news, folks- I got a call from the Sisterhood today. If all goes well, I shall soon be mentoring a 7-15 year old girl. I just hope they won’t be requiring any samples.


Bottom’s Up!

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!