My Spleen Itches, Part Deux

by A Candy-Colored Clown They Call the Sandman

Charlie woke me up in the middle of the night to tell me that Senator Jesse Helms plans to introduce a bill making it a federal offense to electrically stimulate your genitalia while listening to Broadway show tunes from the early 1950's. Charlie, as I may have mentioned earlier, is a piece of lint living next to my water glass on my nightstand.

As I stroll through the hospital corridors this morning, the smell of decaying flesh and antiseptic ointments brings a smile to my face. The patient in 5702 is screaming at the top of his lungs that Vanna White is the antichrist, and swears that every night she is sending him secret messages with each turn of the letters on Wheel of Fortune. The doctors restrain him, and provide the usual Gatorade enema as a sedative. I notice that a freckle on my left hand has shifted position. I inquire of my nurse, Camilia, who is always watching me, whether any of the dermatologists visited my room last night while I was asleep. She assures me that they didn't. I pass a mirror as I round the corner and began screaming in horror. My hair has been replaced! Somebody else's hair has been transplanted onto my scalp. Camilia grabs my arm and steers me back toward my room. I ask her who did this to me, and she tells me that I just need to rest. Further evidence that she is part of the conspiracy.

I flip through the channels and come across an episode of 'Bewitched'. But I don't remember this episode because BOTH Darrins are in it! I am very confused and begin twitching uncontrollably. When I finally recover, I notice that Endora is not wearing any clothes. I become nauseous and flip the channel only to land on an image of Geraldo Rivera jell-o wrestling Oprah Winfrey on American Talk Show Gladiators. I shriek as loud as I can until Camilia appears with my medication.

I wake up craving linoleum. I begin licking the floor and stop when I notice a brownish-yellow, fungicidal toenail belonging to Gary Busey. Charlie claims that it was Mr. Busey who snuck in and switched scalps with me the other night. While I'm on my hands and knees, Dr. Druthers and a group of medical students walk in and stop abruptly to avoid stepping on me. "How are we feeling today?" asked the good doctor in his sickly sweet sing-song voice. "WE are fine," I respond sarcastically. "Good, then you won't mind if we entertain ourselves for awhile," said Dr. Druthers. A large steel cage was then wheeled in, and I was asked to crawl in. Since I knew resistance was useless, I obeyed. Once inside, the doctor and the students all donned Victoria's Secret lingerie with swastika armbands, and held hands dancing in a circle around the cage singing 'Hava Nagilia' and other Bar-Mitzvah hits, while 'The End' by the Doors blared in the background. While this is happening, I become incredibly depressed knowing that occassionally, Claudia Schiffer probably has gastro-intestinal discomfort. I will report to you further, after I am let out of the cage.


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