A trip to the land of cow-tipping should leave us with a treasure chest

I am hours away from surgery and, naturally, I am entirely unsettled. I am going to be sliced open like a dead fish and stuffed like a turkey while I’m anesthetized. I’ve never been to the doctor for anything more serious than strep throat. Actually, I was dropped as a baby and my skull was cracked and that involved a lot of doctor visits. I don’t, however, remember that so it doesn’t count towards any experience I can compare to what I’m about to endure. My throat is bleeding from nervous vomiting and I can not sleep. My eyes are bloodshot and my heart is pounding hard.

“Get your tits done out of state! The doctors here are all on drugs!” a leathery, tan stripper yelled inside the locker room. She had a lot of bad things to say about Las Vegas plastic surgeons. She used the word “butcher,” and I know at least her doctor earned the title. She has one of the worst boob jobs I’ve ever seen. They’re hard rippling muffins yearning to escape from beneath her skin. It’s the kind of boob job that makes you sure you don’t want a boob job. I’m not saying there are no good doctors in Vegas. I just didn’t find the right one here.

So I’ll be out of town for a few days and I’ll be returning with fistfuls of pain killers to sell. Hillbilly heroin, hopefully. I’m going to a state where you can tip cows. There are even funny cow tipping souvenir T-shirts at the airport. Since I won’t have the use of my arms, I will not be indulging in any cow tipping on this trip. I’ll be spending my time listening to David Sedaris books on tape and drooling on myself in varying states of conciousness. A stripper at work keeps telling me to remember to have bendy straws so that I can drink with out lifting a glass since the weight of the liquid will be too heavy to lift and tilt to my lips. The pain will be excruciating.

She says it felt like someone was standing on her chest when she woke up from her surgery. I can’t wait.


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