You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy™
The gurgling pit that is my stomach.
The cleanse has begun.
I can feel the churning.
It’s like an escalator made of bumble bees boring through a mudslide.
The medicine is swallowed. It tastes like three day old Sprite.
There’s nothing to do now, but wait for the inevitable.
Like Cap’n Ahab said to Moby Dick; “THAR SHE BLOWS!”
Will it hurt?
Will I die?
Probably and probably not.
It feels like a gastric tornado spinning inside my small intestine.
It’s so violent, I expect there to be collateral damage.
I expect General Norman Schwartzkorf to show up in my bathroom riding in a Sherman Tank.
It’s so explosive, I expect NASA satellites to be able to track it form orbit.
Hold on a moment, I believe that’s the Weather Channel knocking on my door requesting to do a live shot on my front lawn.
If I could climb in my own storm cellar and weather this storm I would.
The prep is the hardest part everyone tells me.
They are right.
This is work.
I am consuming large amounts of foul tasting liquid.
It tastes like mulched squid mixed with ivory soap.
Oh my God. The next 30 hours promises to be a revolving door of disgust.
While the bad medicine churns in my gut, I can’t help but feel sick to my stomach. I think it’s the fact that I am starving and I am not allowed to eat for the next 40 hours.
Who scheduled this procedure?
Atilla the Hun?
I’m feeling light headed like a Good Year Blimp circling a dietary golf match of my own thoughts.
As the aerial camera pushes in from above, I see a sad lump of flesh. It is moping and hunched over.
The lump of tired flesh is me, dragging two 64 ounce bottles of lime Gatorade behind him.
There is a gnawing at my gut.
GRRRRRRRR!
It is like a pack of ravenous wolves licking their chops, praying for a pork chop.
I am so hungry.
I am not allowed to eat.
I open my fridge and I stare at a hunk of cheese.
It is beautiful and petite.
It is a light yellow Swiss.
One of the holes winks at me.
“Eat me big boy. You know you want to.”
Damn right I want to eat you Miss Swiss. I’m starving out here.
I pour myself another 8 ounce glass of sea weed fried glop.
It’s lime green and hideous.
It has all the dietary nutrients of saw dust.
It looks like stomach bile churned up from a Yak.
I am so hungry.
I find myself actually chewing the Gatorade I am forced to consume.
64 lime green ounces of Miralax powder.
Yuk.
Oh wait. What was that crunchy thing?
Sustenance?
I just crunched a granule of medicine. I roll it over on my tongue, and chew it with my molars.
MMMMM! Tasty.
This must be what Survivor feels like if tribal council was being held inside of someone’s ass.
Ha. I don’t even know what that means.
Anyway.
In today’s world, when your phone can write you a poem and wake you up and get you to grandma’s house, you would think there is an app for this kind of procedure.
You would think it could be non-invasive and immediately available to share on Facebook.
Alas, that is not the case.
Somethings like this are still old school.
You’ve got to earn it.
Perhaps that’s what I’m doing today, earning it.
OK.
That jack hammer in my stomach? That’s the medicine letting me know it’s driving this gastric bus.
Got to go. Literally.
Life’s Crazy™