Last time I was in Providence it was kidney stones...the day John McCain announced he had chose Our Sarah (Palin) as his running mate. Today it is the funeral for H.M.Queen Elizabeth II.

ME (Robert, first of his name) stuck here with a bowel blockage.

From the sublime to the supine.

A week ago I had a stomach ache upon retiring. The following night the same. That weeke d it occurred to me that my guts were not their usual talkative selves. The internet suggested waking them up. I took it easy. I made cream of celery soup to which I added chopped celery. It went down and, I thought, stayed down. Next day walked the dog that isn't mine and met the owners at our usual table in Starbucks. And ate some cheese and Guanita's corn chips.
That night, stomach ache. So next day ate barely anything. Guts still quiet, much too quiet. Were the upper guts speaki g to the lower guts? So I devised a dye teast. I roasted and ate a beet about the size of my cerebellum. I remembered this trick from a meal with my formerly one true girlfriend Helen Wheels. The next morning there were pretty blood-red whisps floating in some water from which I drew confidence that materiels necessary to life were making it "all the way through.
It was a false confidence.
Over the next three days I had two hamburgers a can of tunafish, and fried chicken all with my favorite sides of rice and refries.

Then came Saturday night when my esophagus went from tunnel of luv to maelstrom of ejection. Fountains of fury reminiscent of those episodes of Family Guy where the entire cast vomits copiously.
Same color, too.
What is it with refries?
(And how do I know I will return to my brown gooey sirens? Truly they are the generous Kim Kardashian of legumes.)
I will spare you the gory details except for the last one after throwing the bedsheets and some clothes in the washer and was wrapped in my goose down Eddie Bauer sleeping bag and found that my stomach had saved up one last convulsive spasm which sent me to the shower the second tier clothes rack and the Febreeze.

Got cleaned up and over to Starbucks.

-So, I asked my Starbucks friends, -what next?

-Dumbass, they said, -you gotta even ask? Go to Urgent Care.

-But it's Sunday!
-Think we don't know that, Dumbass. We came here from church. Know what the sermon was? Knock knock knockin' on Heaven's door!

-Ah Dylan.

-How can you know that and still be too dumb to live. We think you're a bad example for the dog. Now try to do something intelligent!

I drove to Urgentcare. They told me to go to Emergency. Except now according to themI could not drive myself.

At the hospital they checked my heart. They tomographied my guts. They found a blockage.

Thanks, dumbass beets!

So I've got a tube down my nose and they are trying to depressurize my small intestine. If that inconvenience don't work, I sure as hell won't like the next option.

But, as usual, I'm lucky to be here. And not in pain. I've gone to a better place until the bills come. That should make some sh..!