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Want Some Kielbasa?

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I'm a little worried, a little scared, a little concerned, because who really wants a Polish sausage down their throat? Bet you don't get asked that question every day. I'm off to my first appointment with a gastroenterologist this afternoon, to start trying to get to the bottom of my gastrointestinal malaises that have plagued me oh so much for what seems like three lifetimes, but is only really about five years. Maybe six. No more than eight. Tops. Okay, so I've been very hesitant to get this thing investigated properly. Why? Well, it's not like it's a pimple on my cheek that needs a good squeeze, or an ingrown toenail that needs trimming, or even one of my many other ailments that are not so fun to have, and yet, not as bad as my tummy woes. This, folks, this is the real thing, the honker of illnesses, the kowabunga of killers. Because I know what the doctor is going to say, and this is what I dread. He is going to say I need a very invasive procedure called...
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How About Some Kielbasa Up The Poopshoot?

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Well, guys, it's worse than I thought it could ever be. It's so bad, I had to pre-empt my previously scheduled post for today. Yeah, I know. Reeal baaad. Yesterday, I went for my appointment with a new gastroenterologist to try and figure out what has been plaguing me all these years and making me lose all sorts of weight, and be a Type 7 most of the time. First things first. This doctor = awesome. I was worried he might be kind of weird, since who really decides to work on people's asses and intestinal inner workings? No one in their right mind, that's who. But this doctor, he was okay. Really thorough, really smart, but I honestly think he's on Quaaludes or whatever those things are that make you hyper (are Quaaludes uppers or downers?). The guy reminded me of Speedy Gonzales, or the Roadrunner. Wiiiiiing!!! Swoooosh! One moment, he's here, the next, he's gone. I need whatever he has. And yesterday please and thanks. I realize this guy is of African-Ame...
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Just call me a dwarf

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