444 Days - Olivier Martinez Controlled Me with a Microchop

Tomorrow I go in for my second endoscopy in four years. NO! DON’T GO! I swear you did not venture on to the “Eve of 70” blog. I promise. An “Endoscopy” is sort of like a colonoscopy for your other end. Maybe that’s how it got the name. Anyway, they put you to sleep and stick a really skinny hose down your throat (you just flashbacked to that time Gary Simpson slipped you roofies, didn’t you?) with a camera on the end (much fancier than Gary’s tube) so that they can see what’s going on down in your esophagus and stomach. I’ve got reflux, MAD. Not quite sure how my second post on this blog turned into complaining about my medical issues but I swear to you, there’s PLENTY MORE WHERE THAT CAME FROM!

Back in Philly (I’m from Philadelphia… more on that topic in later posts) and WAY back in my early twenties I was diagnosed with having acid erosion in my esophagus. Um, ew. I’ve been battling this shit for years. Zantac, Prevacid, Prilosec, Nexium. I’ve taking every pill under the sun for this S.O.B. and man, I can’t knock it. So yeah, tomorrow I go under and they skinny tube me yet again, only this time, they’re implanting a microchip to the inside of me. I POOP YOU NOT! I will be walking around like some 1990’s sci-fi flick featuring Denzel Washington and some British actor as the mad scientist for 4 to 5 days until that thing falls off and my body disposes of it (I’ll spare you the details.) How. About. THAT?? Come on, when my Grandmother was forty they were excited that they didn’t need to use a key to open their Balantine beer any longer, and when my mother was forty, she got to do her own “home-perm” thanks to Clairol (psst… Clairol… call me) so I’m pretty stoked that my generation of middle-agers gets implanted microchips for reflux screening. I think that’s pretty darn nifty (for you, Grammy!) if you ask me.

And I’m looking forward to getting knocked-out to be frank. I like a good sleep every once in a while. Sleep is really good for your skin, says Halle Berry. So’s banging Olivier Martinez (see “Unfaithful” for as close as you’ll ever get) says Halle Berry. Sleep, water, and a hot Frenchman. Maybe I’ll be able to get some well deserved sleep during this thing and while they stick that tube down my throat, I can dream about Olivier Martinez controlling me with a microchip. I smell a blockbuster in the making.