I had a tattoo touchup in June that resulted in a horrible reaction likeI’ve never seen before. I’ll spare the gory details suffice to say my right arm looks like the worst acne faced seventeen year-old.
It has been horrendous, unsightly, and itchy as hell. I went to a doctor who gave me a prescription of antibiotics and steroids so powerful they will, in the words of the pharmacist give me massive diarrhea.
The Mrs. joked and sent her family a text message to exult her fantastic day with kittens and puppies, she also took the time to avail them of my impending brown rain.
It begged the question as we took the dog to play ball for the evening, would she bring an extra bag for me in case I got the squirts mid-throw in the park? Would she help me out?
She said the definition of marriage to her ended in sickness and in health, and if a brown bomber was to erupt amongst the reverie outside I should find one of the closest bushes and ruin a hobo’s day.
I informed my darling if she had a bout of unexpected warm soft serve erupt from her belly not only would I get her an extra bag, I’d hold it for her.
If she needed to spread her rectal layer cake in public I’d shield her from shame, and help her clean up the mess.
If by some surprise she had to squirt a layer of fudge I’d be there with toilet paper in hand and encouragement in my eyes.
I guess our versions of marriage might differ a little.
Pray for me now that I do not smear the sheets with leaky sewage in my sleep.