Aft torpedos!

Aft torpedos!

Well, I’ve got to do what old guys occasionally do. Buy a sportscar? No. Get a mistress? No. I’ve got to get a colonoscopy.

Had one a few years back and they found enough polyps (good luck with that word, Mr. Spellchecker) that I had to go back. Gads. And there is no backing out of this (pun intended) – my sister is a Colonoscop-doc, and has been keeping her gloved finger firmly on the pulse of my calendar. So in I go this Friday (or in it goes this Friday).

For those who’ve never had one, it’s not so much a out-patent thing as an in-patent thing. But worst is the prepwork (or poopwork), where I drink an evil brew prepared by wyrd sisters, one that will make my guts spume out like an inverted Old Faithful. That means all Thursday I’ll be sitting on my hard round seat, reading Stephenson’s Quicksilver (oh, the irony!) while my guts churn and the river flows. Real Typhoon-Lagoon stuff.

Anyway, as part of my non-poop prepping, I already wrote Dog Ear for this week (and will post it Thursday night when the eye of the storm passes over).

Never in the anals of human endeavor has so few given so much of such pew!