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Illin’ in the ileum

Chillin’ on September 16, 2012.

“Holy colostomy bags!” I awoke to find myself upside-down (and probably downside-up too, but that’s a story for another blog). Streams of frantic consciousness careened through my brain, colorful and adipose. I wagered a guess that I was somewhere in the alien slug-beast’s ileum now, resting gently against a patch of villi that were trying to suck all the vitamin B12 out of what remained of my liquescent yet still living corpse. I knew the end was near—or perhaps the end was even nigh now—but I also knew that dear old Catlips the Clown would soon come to rescue me, so I did not despair.

Arbitrary and meaningless units of time passed; my childhood hero did not come. Despair began to creep into my soul, like a centipede in the night. I pined for Loquisha and Ravna and Alyssa and Jennifer Love, but all I got was more sticky darkness and periodic bouts of peristalsis.

I wished that I was back at home, degaussing my computery monitor, degassing my CO2-ridden lake, or even de-goosing my front yard. I wished that I was back in front of my computering machine, downloading Narn porn or even Jaffa porn. I wished that I still had the transnoötic, teranoötic superpowers that my humperdumperdink had so lovingly granted me at the cost of its own muldersome, scullious life.

But I knew that if wishes were horses, we’d all be riding around in buggies and stagecoaches still. And I knew that if I wished in my left hand and defecated in my right, my right hand would surely fill up first. I also knew that I was only half as smart as a half-wit, but I made up for that by being twice as arrogant. And lastly… I knew that the expressions “filthy rich” and “dirt poor” were entirely antonymous despite their seeming synonymity.

I wasn’t sure how any of these facts would help me now, but I knew them all nonetheless. I cursed the fragmentary remnants of my teranoösis and oozed down into the slug’s large intestine. It was going to be a long night.