The Old Blog in the Desert

“Whiskey is for drinking, water is for fighting.” They say Mark Twain said that, though I reckon it might’ve been some fellow who’d had too much of the first and not enough of the second. Either way, it stuck in my head as I prepared for a fate worse than fighting over water—waiting for a colonoscopy.

Now, I must confess I was in considerable discomfort. My mouth was drier than a Nevada desert at noon in July, my tongue felt like a scrap of worn-out carpet, and my mood ungentlemanly.

With my brain gears stuck between boredom and despair, my hand found a bottle of sparkling water. I unscrewed the cap, took one ill-fated sip, and—heaven help me—triggered a ruckus worthy of a barn fire.

“Stop! You can’t drink that!” Five or six folks hollered like I’d swallowed a lit stick of dynamite.

You’d have thought I had single-handedly undone a century of medical science. My heart started up like a mule with a burr under its saddle, and let me tell you, as anyone acquainted with me knows, I don’t fly. Fighting, sure—especially with good sense—but running ain’t my strong suit.

But let’s backtrack, though, so you can fully appreciate my plight. The day prior, I’d swallowed a regimen that I can describe only as a devil’s brew. The prescribed gut cleanser worked its wicked magic, emptying me with the thoroughness of a flooding river flood clearing a valley. By midnight, I was as hollow as a gourd, forbidden from sniffing food or hearing a running faucet.

Fast forward to nearly one in the afternoon. I’d been waiting, parched and miserable, for what felt like a geological ice age when I made that fateful mistake—a mouthful of water, my sole act of rebellion against the gods of modern medicine.

For my crime, they sentenced me to an additional hour of waiting lest my reckless hydration cause me to “aspirate.” And so, there I sat, contemplating the absurdity of my existence.

It occurs to me that reality might’ve become unhinged, like a door swinging loose in a storm. For all I know, I am still under sedation, dreaming up this whole mad episode.

And if that’s the case, I beg you: wake me when the comedy’s over, or at least when the whiskey’s poured.

Addendum

Once they finally managed to drag me out of that uncomfortable room, I awoke from the sedation haze with all the grace of a bear poked with a stick. My throat felt like someone had slit it, and to add insult to injury, my belly button seemed to be doing its best impersonation of a low-rent accordion—pressed so close to my back I could practically taste my spine.

The hunger hit me like a freight train, and my first thought was to rush to Wendy’s and order a Triple with all the works as if I hadn’t been through enough. But then, being the picture of restraint and wisdom (at least for a moment), I reconsidered and thought better of it.

Next, I set my sights on a large beef burrito from the local joint, a noble endeavor, but that fell by the wayside, too. As the hunger pangs raged on like a river in flood, I concluded that sometimes, small is better—so I ended up at Jack in the Box, of all places.

I went for the small fry, a vanilla milkshake (for medicinal purposes, naturally), jalapeño poppers, and egg rolls. Yes, you heard me right, egg rolls—who knew?

And let me tell you, my body appreciated the effort, doubling my fuel efficiency, so to speak, with the amount of gas I expelled. If someone were giving out medals for digestive prowess, I would be wearing a gold one right now.

But I digress; food, after all, is best enjoyed with laughter—and perhaps a dash of humility, which I have in no short supply.