Monday, March 3, 2014
Turtles Up Your Crack
When I booked in for a checkup with my doctor, I never expected to be told (accompanied by the dourest Beethoven tunes ever, boosted to BASS BASS MAX c/o a shitty pair of NHS speakers), “hey, big nose — the reason you’ve been feeling under the weather of late is because a two hundred year-old turtle has taken up residence in your shit pipe.”
It’s at times like these that doubletakes mutate into tripletakes mutate into quadruple-then-polywhoople-OTTgazoopletakes, all of whose net nervospazzular flash results (bizarrely) in no reaction whatsoever.
My doctor coughed, as if a dog had died — alive — in his throat. “You seem unduly unbothered by this news of your imminent anal collapse-cum-potential-reinvention-as-a-novelty-theme-park.”
This is when the turtle finally shifted, upended from the horizontal unparticular to the distinctly perpendicular rectilinear. I thought only dwarf acrobats could do this, but no.
I’m tempted to say that my heart was in my throat at this point, but sadly it was 35 feet away from my cranium, propelled c/o a turtleshifty shunt, and saved from flying off into the stratosphere only by a strap of unduly taut aortic tissue gifted to me by leathery ancestors unknown.
My op is at high noon tomorrow. As I understand it, some guy from the UK Olympic shot putt team is coming down from Scotland to help get my heart back into my chest. A similar out-of-body hearting happened to Simon Le Bon live on stage during a Duran Duran comeback tour when he forgot the lyrics to Rio and panicked. Shot putt guy was in the audience, and raced onstage to save Le Bon’s life. Since then he’s gone on to make a decent living for himself as a professional cardiac eructatoprolapse specialist. Can’t wait to meet him.
As for my pipe reptile, I have to put up with its random wrigglings till some time in August — unless I can get a construction industry pal to nick a JCB and paw my crack with its scooper.
The moral of this story? Get regular health checks for all the essentials: heart, lungs, liver, kidneys, dumpy drooper.
And don’t forget to bag the I HAD A DOCTOR’S HAND UP MY BUM sticker. Mine’s going on the fridge over my magnetic glow-in-the-dark Martin Clunes.