Like a Rolling Stone

September 8, 2016 “Like a Rolling Stone”

My September started off with a bang. I had planned a two-week excursion through several national parks, including Mesa Verde and the Grand Canyon, starting and ending in California. I was due to be there tomorrow, at Dave and Linda’s house.

Then the third double ear infection of the last month and a half set in, and all the antibiotics I had been taking attacked my gut. A CT scan revealed that I also had a “rolling” kidney stone that was due to pass. The doctor told me I would be in agony flying, could possibly rupture my eardrums, and that I shouldn’t be in any wilderness away from health care. So I was grounded.

And oh, yes. No drinking.

At 6:03 p.m. last evening, the rolling stone began its journey to the tip of Gene Jr. and took the entire night to pass through. I scared Scout the Cat with my yelping, wincing, moaning, cursing, quick breathing, belly-aching, agitating, agonizing, convulsing, tingling and algospasming. She might have thought I was Donald Trump, as we had just watched him bloviate on TV.

To summarize: I am downsized, with no Linda’s pies, I am tripless, wilderness deprived, stuck in the Midwest, all reckless’d up with no place to go, wineless and altogether useless.

This is why I don’t own a gun. Farmer Orville is after me to buy a gun. “You never know.” Oh, I know. At 3:20 a.m., I would have blown my head off.

What does passing a rolling stone feel like? Worse than my gut infection. Like sticking a live electric wire up my urethra (not to be confused with Aretha). Like Alton’s annual Halloween parade marching through my peenie. Like Sara Palin’s voice reverberating off my ureter (not to be confused with Uranus). Like the National Rifle Association holding a convention in my bladder. Like Melania Trump illegally entering the U.S. through my dick. Like Dick Cheney shooting me through my spermaltor. Like undead Phyllis Schlaffly hitting my stick with her joyschtick. Like Hillary Clinton’s 30,000 e-mails shooting at warp speed through my man tunnel.

That’s what.

Did I mention no drinking?

My morning cocktail includes nose drops, ear drops, gut med, antihistamines, Tylenol, probiotics, antibiotics and uncle biotics. My male, uh, appendage needs robotics and erotics. My ears ring, my ear rings have ear rings, my eardrums are playing the tympani slams of “Thus Spoke Zarathustra,” my earlobes have waxy yellow buildup, my ear rims have corkscrewy hairs rising up like kelp strands.

I know, starving children in Africa, Republicans losing the House and Senate, Black Lives Matter, yes we really will have no bananas, and some pretty boy lost Taylor Swift vagina privileges.

But, hey! Hey! My Whiteyness is hovering over the abyss. I’m sick as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore! My colon is humongous with colitis fungus. My arthritis is detritus. My Doppler radar predicts pee storm coming. And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard pee gonna fall.

Not that I’m complaining.

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