It’s Sunday night and Guido has a colonoscopy tomorrow morning. So:
I’m on my own for dinner this evening.
I’m on my own for sex this evening, too. Maybe she’ll watch.
There will be horrible, gut-wrenching (literally) sounds all night, accompanied by head-for-the-hills stench-wafts and loud cries in language to make longshoremen blush and cross themselves in terror.
My role, as a mature, responsible, supportive loving spouse of 21 years (this week! More about this later) is to drink her share of tequila. Every 20 minutes she has to consume a quart of cherry-flavored shit-water, so I pour myself another frozen shot. Yo: I’m from Philly. A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.
Everybody who has gone through this — this is Guido’s second time — has a story. Dave Barry’s famous commentary, which everyone has read and 
most people find hilarious, is, I find, quite lame, but I’m not and never have been a Dave Barry fan. His stuff just doesn’t make me laugh. Neither do the zillions of jokes, including variations of, “Going where no man has gone before.”
I have a pretty good story myself, to which old pal and regular commenter ya’gotta’guessit alluded last week. Later, I promise. Basically, they threw me out of the clinic after it was all over. Threw my stoned ass out into the parking lot with the honking cars and senior drivers. They wanted me dead. Evidently, even unconscious, I gave the medical sons of bitches a really hard time — something I’ve done under anesthesia on numerous occasions. I hear deep down I’m a nasty fucker. Who knew?
Anyway, I look forward this evening to a drunken, lonely night on the sofa, an early morning hung-over trip to the clinic, and a rather tense day at work tomorrow. As for the resumption of sex, well, I’ll keep you abreast. He yuk.
P.S. Guido’s a redhead. Photos at eleven. Scotty, you in ?
Guido, we’re all rootin’ for ya … Squatty, who knew you? Indeed.
Everybody says the same thing: the procedure is nothing, it’s the prep that’s bad. I’ve had two and it was true both times, even though the first time involved removing polyps. When you wake up you feel and remember nothing. Of course, that happens to me most mornings, too.
It sounds horrible. I’d rather risk cancer.
Good news, ‘Nonymous. You’re getting your preference.
It’s a damn dirty job but someone’s gotta do it. That’s where I come in.
Beans and Rice should plug up that hole from the bull.
¡Ándale! ¡Ándale! ¡Arriba! ¡Arriba!
Well, this proves what has become evident over the last few weeks: they really ARE all brain-dead in Arizooney.