This day started early, as though Sunday night never really ended.

It was the same old thing: gas in belly, but as soon as it got near the exit and I ran to the head, it'd run away.

The wife even went so far as to put down a crib pad and implore me to just go ahead and shit the bed if that would help at all. (I'm telling you, you don't know someone loves you until they tell you to shit the bed so you can feel better. Unless it's Chuck Berry. But that's for another time).

Despite the generous offer, I simply could not make myself shit the bed.

So instead, I brought a chair upstairs and turned its seat away from the crapper. Then I put a pillow on the back of the chair and proceeded to rolling pin my abdomen again until I was just about to shit the floor, and then I'd drop on the can and purge the evil from my system.

I can't tell you how bizarre it is to build up your anxiety about surgery, only to find that your biggest nemesis would be superpowered farts and cramps.

This went on until about 4am when I finally fell asleep.

As soon as we could, we called the doctor's office, and his nurse asked the sixty four thousand dollar question:

"Why is he taking Zocor? He doesn't have high blood cholesterol...does he?"

No...he does not.

"Well, don't take that anymore. Let's see if that helps."

Meanwhile, I religiously took my two percocet every four hours, lest I lose any of the sludge that was muddying the creative works up in my pumpkin. I had hoped to keep a realtime blog after I got home, but all I could seem to do was eat (a little) and sit and sleep, but only if it was two hours at a time. (Thanks hospital).

I felt better than I had on Sunday. Hell, I repeatedly feel better now than I did six hours ago. I'm truly amazed by this. The healing powers of the human body are truly remarkable.