Tomorrow is Beethoven's coming out party. I'm going down to the big city to get laid on a table (not as good as it sounds) and get carved up like a jack-o-lantern. The greeting committee on hand for Beethoven's first public appearance will include a plastic surgeon as well as real live ones to represent oncology and neurology, and someone to provide drugs, in which I plan to shamelessly indulge. I expect I'll get stoned and I'll miss it.
Beethoven will be running the show, as no one knows exactly what will happen until the actual face-to-lump meeting, where everyone will take their cues from my little buddy. They tell me there's like a twenty percent chance I'll come out of this as good as I went in. My body will joint the beaters on the back lot with the banged up fenders and missing parts, but complaining seem petty considering Beethoven's selfless gesture of giving up his life to save mine. What a pal.
My vacation package includes ten days food and lodging at the beautiful downtown hospital, with a devoted crew of attendants catering to my every need, from injections to wound drainage. If all goes well, and by 'goes well' I mean not dying, most of me should be back home on the 25th. What's left will post an update then to tell you of all my fun adventures and whether I can play the piano; I keep asking the doctors if I'll be able to, after the operation, and you'd be surprised how many fall for it.
If there are no more posts on this blog, that probably means I didn't survive. Probably pissed Allah off, and you know how he is. Now is the chance for all muslims who find this blog offensive to pray that I die on the operating table, and if I don't, obviously it is Allah's will that I keep writing these posts. If there is a next one it should be before the end of the month.