Where’s my suspenders? You Punks!

Was that a duck?

I’m officially an old man now. Time to face the facts.

Sadly, it has nothing to do with slowly failing health, a need to complain about medical insurance, or even those pesky teenagers who, quite frankly, need to get off my lawn.

The topic today is “gas.”

And not even the funny, “pull my finger” variety. That would make for comedy gold, that.

No, I came home from a day at work that Shall Remain Undiscussed, whipped up a little food for the family (hot dogs, anyone? They’re Hebrew National!), and halfway through the meal felt like someone had stabbed me in the gut.

And for the next 45 minutes, they proceeded to not only twist the knife, but bring in a family of trained mice to use it as a diving board to launch themselves into my drink. Metaphorically speaking.

At about the one hour mark, when the wife should be getting ready to go to a meeting, I should be getting ready to go to therapy, and the sitter should be on her way from her Real Job to our house, it was clear there was something going on in there that wasn’t normal.

The last time I felt anything like this, we ended up at the ER where I puked up a gallon or so of blood on the triage nurse and woke up two days later in ICU. Good times.

So the wife was getting ready to call the doctor and preparing for a night in the hospital.

And then I burped.

It didn’t help, really. But then, it didn’t NOT help. Which is when the topic of conversation went from “bleeding all over the floor pretty soon, and do it over on THAT carpet so we can justify replacing it with hardwood flooring” to “do we have any Tums?”

And I started a campaign of forced belches that has lasted, oh, about three hours now. I still feel pain. I still feel like crap. But I fell enough LESS like crap that I think we can skip the ER tonight.

I wonder if they have Wi Fi at the local hospital. Not that it matters. I’m apparently too old to use it. Hmph.

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