I checked it out in Wikipedia and saw a few pictures and immediately realized that I had a great hernia on me, a lot nicer than the one they had in the photo. The cause of the hernia is somewhat of a mystery but since I’m a macho man basically any one of my numerous physical activities could have caused the rupture, starting with teaching 28 eight-year-olds how to sing The Wheels on the Bus with diginity, of course. It can happen at any time, but apparently after the age of 40, the chances rose. There you had it. Just as I was becoming far-sighted right on time, so were my bowels giving way according to the biological schedule. I felt…well…perfectly normal and it sucked. Of course it wasn’t as bad as one of those excruciating martyrdoms where they nail your intestines to a pole and make you walk around it until they fall out, but so far I felt like everything was under control. Which was why the other day I went and did something senseless like go bowling with my daughters. I used one of those super light balls and kept letting it fly into the neighboring lanes. I’m their son has recovered from his bump on the head. But other than that, I feel pretty good. In any event, I wasn’t going to just diagnose myself all on my own. In the end, I needed the approval of a doctor. I told him to take a look and he did. He said formally, “You’ve got a hernia.”
“I know,” I replied. I wanted to ask him how much they paid him for his job.
“And it’s relly nice too.”
“That’s right. A nice specimen.”
“Thanks!” I said with pride. “I already sent a picture to Wikipedia because I think mine is emblematic. I bet few refer to their hernias as that.”
But he wasn’t listening to my stupid comments. “They have to operate you know.”
“That’s right. But I’ve got time right?”
“Weell, it’s not an emergency but you should get it taken care of as soon as possible.”
“Fine.”
“And in the meantime, no excess strains.”
“Not even sports?”
“Nope.”
“How about bowling?”
“Can’t think of a worse thing to do.”
“I agree a hundred percent.”
