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Diaryland

I Start Fires!

Lexiroth
Her Rainess
Lizsama
'Cedez
Moonie
Pipey
Timofsky
Motro
Squeeky
Lady Maverick
DM
Shoisies
Chokie

2002-11-29

Piggy's specs were nicked at: 5:11 p.m.

Lexiroth's Latest reminded me of something I didn't want to be reminded of, because it makes my blood pressure soar like a blessed bulging angel. Everyone knows about the fellow who brought down the plane in PA on September 11th. The fellow with more balls than a yuppie tennis court. The fellow who said those two famous words that America has turned into a commercial buzzphrase: "Let's Roll."

I wonder what he would say if he could re-animate his body (mercifully pre-flight, no Monkey Paws please) and walk into a bookstore today. Sooner or later he'd stumble upon a certain book titled -- wait for it -- Let's Roll. A book written, published and released in less than a year after he sacrificed himself for his country. A book with his beloved wife's name in the byline and a big fat picture of her face with a "Only Jesus Knows How I've Suffered, But I Smile On Bravely For America" gaze taking up 70% of the jacket.

If I commited a noble act (not fat likely), gained international recognition for it, and then found out my significant other wrote a biography about me while I was still warm in my dirt bed, I'd fucking haunt him. With all due respect, what the hell is the book going to talk about? The harrowing trials of driving to work and back, and going out for ice cream with the family on Saturdays? Or am I being too considerate towards this woman and overlooking the obvious -- she's a whore-lady who wants to cash in on her husband's brave death while patriotism is still hot?

Far be it for me to talk badly of widows, but Oh My Little Pony, the sight of that book makes me want to bite things and draw blood.

It doesn't help that I'm in a bad mood to start with. My doctor wants me to go through a few tests because he thinks there's a problem with my bladder, blah blah, shit I won't bore you with because you certainly don't want to hear about it. I was supposed to get an ultrasound today at two thirty. To prepare, I had to drink 32 ounces of water and was not allowed to pee for three hours before the test. Since I tend to visit the washroom every half hour or less, I thought I'd died and gone to hell for my sins. I was on time, waiting, practically in tears for the discomfort, the sheer pain I was in. Three o'clock crept up and no one had seen me yet. "Oh, the ultrasound department is running slow today." Fuck you, I'll show you all how to run fast. I ran to the washroom and had the greatest pee of my life. Of course, I couldn't have the test done afterwards but it was either give up or wet myself. And if I'm going through that again, I'd better have a guarantee for 2:30. It'll never happen, of course, so I guess I'm never getting the ultrasound. OH WELL. At least I still get one more hellish test done next month, one I can't bear to describe in any detail.