Cheesy Metaphor Moment #273
Yesterday I had day care, outpatient eye lid goober-ectomies. Both eyelids had sprouted a wart-like thing built from sand and other desert grit. The debris was swept up by my eyelashes. Twenty months of Sundays ago, I used to bat them to initiate a chat up. Now they are working against me, conspiring with many other body parts to put a name tag on my toe more sooner than later . Et tu eye lashes?
If my Big Black comes on like a Propofol shot, well, I've no problem with that. ". . .peacefully in his sleep last night at the age of. . ." obit.
But if my Big Black comes as an Airbus taking its sweet time to come unglued as it slowly nose dives towards the ocean or if it's to be one of those lingering types, a "I'm gonna fight this thing" type, well, shee-it.
If a doctor were ever to say to me that I've got somethin' bad, mad dog mean bad and that I've got a 50/50 chance to beat this "thing", (after I move beyond breaking down and bawling, screaming and slobbering like a 2 year old 'why me? why me?', I ain't goin' gently into that good night, no sirree.
I'm gonna check into the John Entwistle suite, room 658 at the Las Vegas Hard Rock Hotel and Casino with a mountain of blow, a fifth of 12-year old single malt, a half dozen grape flavored gel packs of Viagra and a couple, two, three high class pro's who accept Visa or MasterCard.
I had a choice. Two visits, one for each eyelid, and a local anesthesia or both eyelids on the same day with a general. This wasn't a difficult decision to make.
I heard the anesthesiologist tell her assistant to give me 20-mL of Propofol which made me think of Michael Jackson. At the same time, I'm listening to what sounds very much like a church bell death knelling. I ask the assistant, "What is that noise?"
"It's the heart monitor, he said." I asked myself, shouldn't that thing be beep beep, beeping not Bong! Bong! Bonging!?
The anesthesiologist placed over my nose and mouth the hissing fighter-pilot mask, telling me to take deep breaths and start counting backwards from one hundred. I glanced to my left and read on a piece of operating theater machinery the word "Infiniti".
One hundred. "Infiniti". Bong! Ninety nine. "Infinity". Bong! Ninety-eight. "Propoful" Bong! Ninety-seven. "Michael Jackson" Bong! Ninety. . . bong!
"It's the heart monitor, he said." I asked myself, shouldn't that thing be beep beep, beeping not Bong! Bong! Bonging!?
The anesthesiologist placed over my nose and mouth the hissing fighter-pilot mask, telling me to take deep breaths and start counting backwards from one hundred. I glanced to my left and read on a piece of operating theater machinery the word "Infiniti".
One hundred. "Infiniti". Bong! Ninety nine. "Infinity". Bong! Ninety-eight. "Propoful" Bong! Ninety-seven. "Michael Jackson" Bong! Ninety. . . bong!
But if my Big Black comes as an Airbus taking its sweet time to come unglued as it slowly nose dives towards the ocean or if it's to be one of those lingering types, a "I'm gonna fight this thing" type, well, shee-it.
If a doctor were ever to say to me that I've got somethin' bad, mad dog mean bad and that I've got a 50/50 chance to beat this "thing", (after I move beyond breaking down and bawling, screaming and slobbering like a 2 year old 'why me? why me?', I ain't goin' gently into that good night, no sirree.
I'm gonna check into the John Entwistle suite, room 658 at the Las Vegas Hard Rock Hotel and Casino with a mountain of blow, a fifth of 12-year old single malt, a half dozen grape flavored gel packs of Viagra and a couple, two, three high class pro's who accept Visa or MasterCard.
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2 Comments:
Very fun and even funnier and kind of impressive, too, considering both your eyelids are kind of glued shut.
It's one of my favorite games, the 'what would you do when the end is way too nigh' (I'm not even wondering what I might have spelled wrong and might have spelled right in that line, btw.) If you were here, I'd make merciless fun of you for picking this scenario because I'm guessing you still have perfectly good use of hands ...
But you're not here and a blog's not the place to pickety-pick and poke, so I'll just say: but you're okay now, right? :)
Booda--I'm healthy as a horse, if that horse happens to be an old gray mare. This scenario is just my way of saying you're never too late rock and roll.
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