Tag Archives: medicine

Annals of Medical Triumph, Vol. Whatever


I went for an MRI late this afternoon.  This was not one of those “I don’t have anything better to do, maybe I’ll go in for an unpleasant medical experience” things.   Having gone to my back doctor for more than a year, I think he realized I was not just going to go away and so he ordered one to have a little look see at what is actually going on inside my back.  Why am I whining all the time, in other words.

Sweet pancakes of mine, I had always heard how LOUD an MRI is, but was unprepared for the reality of it.  It is stick your head in a jet engine loud.  I am of the generation that shared in the hearing damage of serious rock shows and none of them were this loud.  And that was with earplugs and these sound deadening blocks on my ears.  “Sound deadening.”  It is to laugh.

They shoved me into a tiny tube after repeatedly asking if I was claustrophobic.  How I wish I said yes, maybe they would have given me drugs.  mrpeenee’s new Rule Number 1: Always demand drugs when in a hospital.  Even if you’re just visiting some patient. Then the racket cranked up.

I remembered reading about some christian who chanted “Christ’s mercy” as he was being martyred (and these pagan guys in charge of martyring were terribly inventive.  Saints are depicted usually with some reference to how they met their grisly fate; Saint Lucy with her eyeballs on a plate, Saint Agatha with her titties on another plate, Saint Lawrence, who was grilled and toasted alive, is shown holding a griddle, which usually looks sort of like a waffle maker.  In the Sistine Chapel, Jesus is getting up from his chair and turning away from all the damned with this air of “I am through with you.  Later bitches.” and all the saints form a sort of scrimmage line between him and the out of luck souls trying to scramble out of hell.  But Lucy, Agatha and Lawrence, ready to tackle them and still holding those damn plates and griddle, give it the air of very odd buffet.  Christians.  So weird.)

Anyway, I tried mentally chanting “Christ’s mercy”, but it didn’t seem to do much, possibly because I am a heathen, so I switched it up to “RuPaul’s mercy, RuPaul’s mercy.”  That didn’t do much either.  I just gave up and started hoping I would begin hallucinating soon.

They finally dragged me out.  The tech cheerfully said “Well, that was a long one, but we got some great pictures!” I was literally staggering and limping from being cramped and not moving for 45 minutes, but it was after 6:00, these guys were ready to get out of work, so they kept announcing that I just had to go through the double doors.  They had the air of a bartender shoving the last drunks out the room.

I didn’t care.  I was so glad it was over, I would have crawled out if I’d had to.  So now I’m  home eating Oxycodone and ice cream in about equal measure.  But we got some great pictures!  Maybe I’ll get some wallet size ones.


Or maybe I would prefer these back pictures


Definitely.  Better than my back.



So Saki has the tiniest little substance abuse, or just substance great fondness.  Cat nip, of course.  The heartbreak of so many happy homes.  I keep most of his toys in a charming wicker basket in the living room.  Every other Monday, the cleaning ladies gather up all the toys that have escaped and put them back in the toy box;  I expect this is accompanied by a disapproving sniff.  I’m only surprise they don’t drop in a pamphlet about Jesus is The Light.

Recently I brought one of the catnip snakes up to my room so when those rare moments of consciousness pass by I can play with Saki, poor little neglected waif.  Now in the wee-est of hours, I will hear, somewhere out in the dark, Saki licking and sucking and grunting and making Nip Love to the Nip Snake.


Speaking of the Nip Snake

I have my own substance problems.  Using them isn’t the problem; laying hands on them is.  Last summer, my pain doctor started on a quest to find something to replace vicodin in my daily life.  He emphasized it was because along with vicodin comes ibuprofin or aceteminfin. neither of which are good for your liver.  This has nothing to do with Congress’s sudden feverish attack on opioids.  Oh no.  Thus began the Summer of Annoying Drugs.  Some made me sick, some made me crazy (literally.  The Children and Super Agent Fred developed this worried look about me) and then I found Opana.  I’ve spoken about this before; just as I got used to it working really well and being a great help, the FDA pressured its manufacturer into removing it from the market.

The press pointedly said the drug they were removing was Opnana Extended Release.  I was taking Opana Immediate Release.   Patience is not one of my many virtues.  I asked both doctor and pharmacist if that made a difference.  Nope.  It’s gone.  And so I wound up on Oxycodone, which I have long resisted since it is so trailer park trashy and you know what a Lady I am, especially about those things I put in my body.  Which is a temple.  And possibly a bowling alley.

Then yesterday at my monthly doctor visit, the good doctor said “You know, I’ve been thinking, the only thing the reports said they were removing was Opana ER, so I started wondering if maybe Opana IR is still out there, so I checked and it is.  Why don’t we get you back on that?”

Thank god for years of government work which has left me immune to fatheads.  I did not shriek about how that’s what I said in October.  I simply agreed, oh what a clever idea, aren’t you a good boy.


Who’s a good boy?

So now I’m back on Opana.  My back and I are so very glad.  Of course, it comes in big ass pills, that I cut in half and then take every three hours, so I’m pretty much on a steady, higher plane.  OK with me.

And Saki is all nipped up, so everybody is happy.  Until our next crisis.

Skin Deep


So, after cleaning up all the scrapes and scraps and cuts and bits that came from my fight with the garden, I tried to be extra conscientious about keeping it clean and sterilized and, of course, it took about a day and a half to get infected.  I wound up on antibiotics that I finished yesterday, yay, with only puking once.  Any prescription that ends in “…xin” is guaranteed to do a job on my delicate stomach.  So that’s over, I’m guzzling yogurt to replace all the flora and fauna that the meds killed off in my gut and things will be great very soon.

In the meantime, let us turn our attention to a much more appealing topic, the ever popular Muscle Pussy.  I always try to include some example of it in my posts because 1) it amuses me and 2) there is so much of it available now through the magic of the internet.  When I was a young poof, I could never have dreamed of a day when there was such a wealth of beefcake spread out before us.

Usually, I just paste up some taut skinned youth and don’t really discuss it, but today I have to protest this beauty’s tragic choice of body adornment, or “ink” as the youth of today would have it.


Look at that flawless, smooth, clear, satiny skin, tagged with the stupidest array of strip mall tattoo parlor art I’ve ever seen.  It looks like he just wandered in between his shifts at the Olive Garden and had them slap on whatever they had time to finish before he had to get back to work.

Oddly enough, considering what an old codger I am, I don’t mind tattoos in general, but if you’re going to cover a lot of ground with them, there should be some idea or concept that pulls them together in a cohesive style.  You know this boy, on the other hand, doubtless has Bart Simpson in there somewhere.  “Molly.”  Really?  What happens when Molly decides she’s a lesbian after all and dumps you and your beautiful tits?  And “1994”?  I remember 1994, sort of, what about it?  I know, it’s probably when he was born, which makes having this much numbnuts stupid tats just that much worse.  I can’t get over how lovely his skin is.  It’s like he has no pores.  To cover any of it seems like a waste.


Then we have this boy, with a much more discreet and attractive… something.  And I’m talking about the tattoo, by the way.  I don’t know, is it backwards?  So he can read it while he admires his big, fat man piece in the mirror?  Is it “This end up” in latin?  Who knows?  And leopard skin hair!  I haven’t seen leopard skin hair since I was a gay young thing.  And that was a long time ago.


And this last boy just because I thought he was pretty and had such lovely eyes.

All these came courtesy of the fascinating tumblr site Sparticus 2000 .  I cannot recommend cruising around there enough.

In Which mrpeenee Suffers White People Problems


The rug I won in a vicious Ebay auction arrived and turned out to be dreadfully the wrong color.  Instead of the brilliant marigold orange pictured, it turned out to be rust.  Ugh.  Do I look like a rust person?  And then I got the worst manicure of my life, one which actually left me bleeding.  To quote Dorothy Parker, “Damn Miss Rose.”

Wounded, I nevertheless pressed on because our dear Diane con Austiburg is due in town tomorrow and I needed some of those homey little things one needs if one wants one’s guests to be able to take showers.  Yes, there I was, BLEEDING, and yet I headed off to the much loathed Lowe’s Home Improvement Hellhole because that’s just the kind of martyr I am.

Driving over there, I noticed I was suddenly roasting hot (understandable in July in New Orleans, but the air conditioner was cranked all the way up) and sort of clammy and light headed.  So what did I do?  I kept driving.  I’m an American, dammit, and I’m not about to let a little thing like physical incapacity stop me from wheeling along in my Nissan death machine.

I staggered into Lowe’s feeling like crap on a stick.  I know there are many mens who seem to get an erection just walking in their doors, but I am not one of them.  I find the whole thing confusing and annoying at the best of times, so for a while I blamed my symptoms simply on being in the damn store.  That’s when I realized my eyes weren’t exactly focussing, which seems like something I would have noticed while driving, but no; let us assume this speaks to my superior piloting skill.

I stood in some aisle surrounded by those mysterious bits of electrical thingies (I have no idea how I wound up there, I have never in my life needed any of that colorful but menacing esoterica) trying to decide if I was having a stroke or a heart attack.  In fact I stood for quite a little while considering the two as if they were items on a menu and trying to remember which one was worse.  All I came up with was the memory of how Bette Davis’s face looked all droopy and scary after she had hers.

I decided what I needed was a good piss and on the way to the toilet, I found a cooler filled with Cokes and Gatorade, cause this is an establishment that caters to manly men.  I love Gatorade, I think it a panacea and sure enough it did seem to make me feel better, so I wrapped up my shopping and checked out.  I was determined to get that damn shower curtain up if I died en route.  Also, since it was a self check out and chaotic as something out of Dante, I refused to pay for the Gatorade and just tossed the empty bottle in handy receptacle.  Hee hee.

I suppose I could have taken a shot at an emergency room, but I’m pretty sure none of the Lowe’s employees would have helped get me to one and would have, in fact, stepped over my failing corpse if I had collapsed.  Anyway, my experience with New Orleans’ emergency rooms is that unless you’re bleeding and can include the term “gunshot” in your explanation, you’re in  for a long wait for not very much.


Now THIS, this is an emergency room I would wait in line for.

Also, by that time I felt better so I just stopped at Walgreen’s for a creme filled Twinky knock off delicacy and came home.  And now I feel fine, peachy in fact,  so either it was none of the scary things I was envisioning, or it was one of them and it didn’t particularly kill me or it really was just being in fucking Lowe’s.  Could happen.

Meanwhile, the motherfucking shower rod refused to work.  Typical.