Truly, I was a fool not to recognize the Omen before I was metamorphosed into a gigantic flasher-like cockroach dressed in a double-breasted Spy vs. Spy vs. Spy trench coat while awaiting my delayed flight from Prague to Paris. Tangled up in tubes, I suck in intravenous, while lying upon once-upon-a-time pure white sheets totally helpless. The hippo man in the bed next had just been released for weekend leave from this ward of infectious disease. My belly, his thighs, are equally bloated like cannon balls with fuses lit… Set to explode out one end or the other….
Seuss-like Catch Or really, Catch No. You better be able to do No. Or if you can't do No. Interns take notes. Scientific curiosity? The nurse plugs in the catheter spewing hematemesis… in celebrating my cockroach metamorphosis. I enter a magnetic tunnel where the aurora borealis flashes purple haze in such a strange cacophony…. On the day of the overly anticipated Apocalypse my raw guts are served up onto a sterilized chopping block. The Doc hones his instruments for scraping vermicelli from a giant porcini… With chisels sharpened just for spelunking into that voluminous cavity, he probes down deep into raw tartare meat that not even cannibals have enough guts to eat.
Je ne bande plus. Encrusted from head to toe in a full body massage with black volcanic sludge and sulfurous vapors steaming,. I awake from the black pall like a newborn child with the wild kaleidoscope eyes of retrograde ejaculation. No longer a cockroach flasher, my humanity is redeemed by an at least partially substantiated revelation… There, hooked to my left side is a bright yellow handbag: Not exactly Gucci, Hermes, or even LV.
Routine check-up, lying flat on back, knees pulled up to the chest, like a yoga tablet, latex glove stuck up the bent-over butt…. Prostate Prostation! And to summarize this sordid story what could be a more valid testimony to the lewd nature of those invisible enzymes that creep by osmosis ever so furtively when the prick of Death and War menaces through dense unsuspecting intestines simultaneously to defenestrate all who suffer for their Art after rotting for so many miserable years Lost in regrettably delusional existential thought upon their raw flatulent rears and who now curse four letter words in green day glow graffiti in obscene silence upon the walls of the WC.
The Moral: If you fervently believe your plumbing is twenty-four carat gold that you will never grow flatulent and old then you really better start re-thinking! French newspaper headlines scream across the dull glow of my computer screen. Bedridden I lie in a retrograde trance after surgery in never-ever-land.
