This is a picture of me looking happy as a hermaphrodite clam shortly after receiving a colonoscopy the other morning.
My old man died of colon cancer at 59, and since it’s highly hereditary, I have to allow them to inspect my Poop Chute every five years.
I wrote a few years ago about the marvelous, personality-enhancing effects of the anesthetic Propofol, the drug that killed Michael Jackson.
They shot me up with a creamy syringe of the sweet nectar again the other morning. As the nurse pressed the plunger, she told me I’d be unconscious in 3-5 seconds. I vowed to stay awake longer than that, but I was out before the plunger hit bottom.
I awoke to be informed that my colon is as slick and blemish-free as an Olympic luge track, whereupon I hugged the nurse. I never hug anyone.
I also took three short videos of me “under the influence.”
Seriously, someone needs to figure out a way to market this drug for the street. There would be no more racism, no more sexism, and no more war.
(In case you were wondering about my outfit, I’m a cold-weather faggot and have decided to dress Russian for this coming winter. Even the hospital room was way too fucking cold for me. We all have our weaknesses, and sensitivity to even the mildest chill is traumatizing for me. Once it gets under 40, I’m screaming so loud you’d think I have a Tumblr blog.)
Originally published at StreetCarnage.com.