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Food Rules
When it comes to food, my basic philosophy is that I won't eat anything that eats me first. I do understand, though, that there are many people who have religious or moral restrictions on what they can put in their mouths, and my attitude toward …Read more.
The Voice of GPS
Over the years, automobiles have tried many different ways to communicate with us. The screeching voice of a car alarm, for example, means, "I'm lonely, and I want everyone in the neighborhood to wake up." The "check engine" …Read more.
Thank You for Flying
Today, you can fly on one of two types of airlines, depending on whether you'd rather go Chapter 7 or 11.
Before deregulation, air carriers didn't go broke very often, and there were commercial routes to every airport in the world, including a …Read more.
A Probing Look at My Colonoscopy
As I revealed in my column last week, my primary physician wanted me to have a colonoscopy because she was worried that the way things were going with my health care this year I might not exceed my deductible. She sent me to a specialist: a man who …Read more.
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Ready, Set, Go. And Go. And Go.When it comes to my gastro-intestinal system, my firm policy is that all traffic should be strictly one-way. I'm therefore more than a little nonplussed when my doctor advises me she'd like to see me get a colonoscopy. "What kind of person," I demand, "would like to see something like that?" For those of you fortunate enough not to know what a colonoscopy is, picture yourself sitting at home having a quiet evening with your family, and the doorbell rings, and it's the Roto-Rooter man. Only in this case, before he so much as unpacks his equipment, you must do everything possible to make sure your pipes are completely clean. So it's the day before my appointment with Dr. Rooter. Since midnight, I've had nothing to eat or drink except clear liquids, which means I woke up this morning cranky and grumpy and impossible to be with, as usual. Dr. Rooter has prescribed a medication for me called "Drano for Humans." Over a period of four hours, I am to drink a gallon mixture that will do for my digestion what "ignition" does for rocket fuel. Dr. Rooter wants my pipes so clean that when he shines a scope up from down below I'll emit light from my ears. I take an experimental sip of the stuff and make a noise like a female tiger in labor. "Arghhhhhh!!" At my shout, my loyal dog decides I must be in pain and runs away so it won't happen to him. "Pleasant tasting," the label on the gallon jug reads. Pleasant tasting? Compared to what? If this tastes pleasant to the people who make this stuff, what do they drink, insecticide? The label explains that I've been lucky enough to get the lemon-lime flavor of human Drano, which actually does taste like lemon-lime if you've never had a lemon or a lime. If you have, it tastes like a bottle of cyanide has been crushed and mixed into a gallon of citrus-scented dish soap. After a few swallows, my mouth issues a report: "Sorry, but we will be unable to process any more of this stuff in our lifetime." My eyes say, "We've got about a gallon to go, minus a few swallows." My stomach says, "This doesn't work for us, either — please send chocolate or a hamburger." My lower digestive system says, "Oh-oh, I think we're going to OOPS TOO LATE!" When I worked for the fire department, we had a formula to determine how many firefighters were needed to handle a hose — and whether you needed one, two or three firemen depended on "nozzle pressure." After an hour of Human Drano, I conclude that I have reached maximum nozzle pressure and am ready to hand the job over to three other people. Meanwhile, I am so famished I want to put steak sauce on my own arm. I try watching football until I realize I am fantasizing about eating the football. A dog-food commercial makes me resent dogs — they get to eat. So do the actors in pizza commercials, and it makes me sob aloud with grief: Those used to be my people, but I've been banished from the tribe. I open the refrigerator and stare inside, I unscrew the peanut butter jar and inhale the fumes; I go to the counter and individually kiss each tomato. Would Dr. Rooter really notice if I had a banana? Maybe a banana served on roast beef au jus with mashed potatoes? What if I left out the banana? And then I run down the hall to the bathroom, where I've already read every magazine in the house. I'll let you know next week how all this, um, "comes out." To write Bruce Cameron, visit his Website at www.wbrucecameron.com. To find out more about Bruce Cameron and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate Web page at www.creators.com. COPYRIGHT 2009 CREATORS.COM ?? ?? ?? ??
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