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Vice Blog

THE TYRANT LIVES

Here is me in the dressing room. This is kind of like a work of art (because there is art on the wall behind me). The procedure was such a small thing that they let me keep my jeans on.

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Ugh, I'm just home from the endoscopy and I feel totally normal. I feel nothing. Last thing I remember was hearing, "Goodnight!" and then I said, "Wait, I don't even feel anything. Don't start yet!" Then I woke up in the recovery room with no buzz whatsoever. When did this start happening? I thought the shitty part of having to go to the hospital and be put under was always balanced out with a courtesy departure buzz from the doctors and staff. I guess it costs less if they save on the dope.

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But it didn't even feel like dope of any kind--more like they found my on and off switch. To be honest, I didn't even know the procedure had occurred. When I came to (I thought I had just blinked) there was a nurse beside me whom I asked, "Where'd they go?" She told me I was finished and could get up in a minute and go home. Did I want some crackers and ginger ale? "Sure." Needless to say, I was pissed. I was hoping to come home, sit at my desk, and enjoy cigarette after cigarette in a blooming narcotic haze while unleashing my drugged subconscious onto all of you. It could have been so great. Turns out that the endoscopy was also a failure. My stomach hadn't chewed up its food yet from the night before so she couldn't take any souvenirs. I have to go in later this afternon for another one. Think if I slip the nurse a twenty that she'll give me a boost on the drip?

TAKE TWO

OK, just got home from endoscopy number two. You know what? This time I feel kind of nice. I asked the doctor and her crew if they were jewing me on the goods (yes, I said the word jewing--my doctor is Jewish so it all worked out laughingly) and I think this might have influenced a finger to hold down a button a little longer because I feel like petting my dog, or playing piano, and my cigarettes are tasting muy delicioso (a clear sign of a proper buzz). When I woke up from the procedure this time I started ripping these booming 20-second long farts. Talking to the doctor a minute later, she told me they had to pump a bunch of air into me to open things up so I might feel gaseous. "Oh, okay," I said as I concentrated on clenching my butt cheeks together with all of my might to keep from blasting one on her. They took a couple of biopsies this time so we'll know something solid in a week or so. But she said that my stomach looked red like raw steak and there seems to be an infection. I thought it looked like that anyway. I mean, it is inside my body. I guess we'll wait and see. It could turn out that I have something really fucked up with me going on! In that case, there will be some major prescriptions being written (allow me to dream) and then we'll have some real fun. Remember: If you hope for the worst, you are rarely disappointed. Then again, please God don't let it be this.

Oh, and here are my sweet shoes. Naturally, I kept them.

GIANCARLO DITRAPANO