[Read Potty Problems first.]
Y’all (or most of y’all) will be happy (or mostly happy) to know that I’m still alive (or mostly alive) after yesterday’s procedure. This should be good news to Kim Ayres, who won’t have to bother sending me one of his “I’m sorry you’re dead” greeting cards.
I am also proud to announce that I did not utter even one blood-curdling scream during the hour I was abed in Doctor Potty’s little chamber of horrors.
“You have a high tolerance for pain,” the assistant said.
Yes, yes I do,” I concurred. “I’ve survived 11 years of Catholic school, 3 years in the Army, 7 years in college, and 35 years of marriage. I know all there is to know about pain.”
No I don’t. I’ve never had to birth a bowling ball through a golf ball-size opening. I’ve never been tortured by any entity of the U.S. Government (yet). Most of all, I have no form of excruciatingly painful cancer, the kind of pain that never stops.
So overall, I’m in pretty good shape piddle-wise. There isn’t any change in my symptoms yet because everything down there is swollen and needs to heal, but by Inauguration Day I should be ready for a good old-fashioned pissing-for-distance contest . . .