What a night. Hailstones the size of watermelons. And the diarrhea!
I've got to hand it to Phyllis. What a trooper. She asked if I wanted to go to the hospital. But we just did the whole hospital thing with her teeth and I've had enough of that. I decided to tough it out on the bathroom floor.
This post was made by Sue Deutscher, the woman, the enigma. And just who, you must be asking, is Sue Deutscher? I fight for children who can't scream for themselves, dogs trapped behind chain links who can't bite for themselves, and postal carriers who can't tread on daisies ah, for themselves. I am, you could say, the working man's go-to girl for all jobs dirty and despicable. You can't fight crime with a teaspoon and an apron, I always say. You've got to get down in the grime and smell it.
Which takes me back to the diarrhea. First of all, the word comes from the 14th century, when not even the freakin Queen of Merry Old had equipment that flushed. And, as we are all painfully aware, it means "abnormally frequent intestinal evacuations with more or less fluid stools." More or less? Okay. I'll go with that. It's a broad definition. Fortunately for me, the walk to the toidy wasn't long, and all I had to do along the way was scare the piss out of Phyllis, sitting at the table engaged in Arts and Crafts.
"I don't feel good," I said, holding my volcanic abdomen.
"Throw up?" she said, concerned, as I passed.
"Diarrhea."
I spent hours in there. She could have built The Eiffel Tower out of toothpicks by the time she asked if I was okay. By then, I had decided it best, after, ahem, serving nature, to just lie on the cool floor rather than try to stand, pass out, and risk the bathtub versus my head. Finally, she said, "Are you okay?"
I asked if she could come in. Parenthetical phrase: The bathroom is only big enough for a miniature Chihuahua to take a piss. I had to move my legs away from the door in order for her to open it, no small feat when it already took all of my strength to keep my poor heart just barely beating.
"Oh, Sue!" she said. I LOVED that part!
And then I weakly asked if she could moisten my brow with a cool cloth, as I had, in my infirmity, perspired quite heavily, and, as we know, glistening with excrement is no way for a lady to present herself. SWEAT! I was glistening with SWEAT! For Christ's sake. Sweat, by the way, is a word that comes from the 12th century, proving once and for all that people needed a natural way to cool themselves BEFORE they ever shit in their pants.
In the third millennium B.C., only rich people had toilets. But in any time in history, only a truly rich person has had someone to wipe a hot brow with a cool cloth.
