So first things first, I suppose. I’m all clean! Well, my CT scan is all clean. I’m still a filthy minded, hygienically challenged miscreant, but you people seem to go for that sort of thing.
It took all mother fucking day. I had my breakfast of champions at around 10am. But I didn’t leave Sloan-Kettering until nearly 6pm. That’s a long time, Interwebz.
Even high on Lorazapam I only need about 20 minutes to read Us Weekly cover to cover. After I ripped off my address and left detailed documentation of Sandra Bullock’s new baby on the coffee table for the next stoner to browse, I tried to read the New Yorker…high. Rocco took it away from me when I started drooling on the cartoons. Eventually I settled for blowing bubbles through my straw into the contrast cocktail while counting my fingernails in Klingon. PS I don’t speak Klingon.
Did I mention Rocco is a saint? (And unlike St. Joe sulking downstairs in the dirt, Rocco seems to actually be DOING something. Granted, “something” actually means “sulking about the Yankees.”)
But it was well worth it, Interwebz! According to Aloysius, world’s cutest oncologist, the next scan is just “to be extra safe.” It seems they skip the last scan for lots of people because there’s such a low chance of re-occurrence at that point. Which means there’s almost no chance of it coming back for me, either! Fuck to the yeah, bitches! *channels Patty Punker and does a wicked long “clean scan” dance*
Somebody remind me of that fact when I start hyperventilating in November, ok? (I know, Shawn. Don’t yell. I promise to be much calmer next time.)
So now that we have all THAT drama behind us for at least another six months, I can dedicate myself fully to my quest of world domination…and making you question your daily decision to read this blog.
For example, I might tell you about the new Vajazzled porno that will soon be available for purchase. It comes with it own set of do-it-yourself crystals so you can re-enact your favorite scenes at home. So yeah, I’ve already found this year’s Christmas present for the parents. Hopefully the vajazzles won’t hurt the exercise ball.
I have a further addition to the list of things I hope you don’t actually purchase but I still find freakishly intriguing. Interwebz, I present to you the Cruzin Cooler. Yup, it’s basically a Igloo cooler with a motor strapped to it. Those Hoveround people must be kicking themselves right now.
Where I come from, someone lacking most of their teeth would ride in on one of these bad boys and say, “Hey y’all, watch this!” right before exploding in a fiery ball of Coors Light, pork rinds, and acid-wash denim.
I like to take my cocktails “to go” as much as the next gal, but this seems a tidge excessive even to me. I’m not about to strap a jet pack onto the back of my Kleen Kanteen Wine Karafe and blast my way over the Hudson and into Manhattan. Ok, now that I wrote that I have to admit it does sound kinda bad ass. I guess you can take the girl out of the sticks, but you can’t take the stick out of the…let’s just leave it at that. Ew.
Obviously it’s cool because A) it’s a cooler, people – duh – and B) they spell Cruzin with a z. These little arctic scooters are so bad ass, they don’t even need the apostrophe after the misspelled Cruzin! That ought to be an indicator of the size of the Cruzin Cooler’s creator’s ginormous (and well chilled) cojones.
Oh thank GOD! You can hook a trailer to it! It’s called a Cooligan. Take back everything I said before. I now fully endorse the Cruzin Cooler. *cough*
I’m pretty sure this is a sign of the impending Douchepocalypse. I guess it’s only a matter of time until wild gangs of Cruzin Crusaders rove the streets, pelting innocent citizens with ice cold cans of PBR.
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