gridlore | Urg. Staying home was the right thing to do. (Reply)

Ever since my chemo, I've had a mild-to-annoying case of IBS. Most of the time, it's nothing major, but add up exhaustion, stress, Kirsten not being home, and guess what?

Picture if you will a steampunk dream of a control room. levers, wheels, dials, all in gleaming brass and polished teak. The crew are smartly attired in uniforms, and the only thing brighter than the brasswork is their buttons. With great cheer and determination, they go about the business of adjusting, fine tuning, and being very, very English. This is the control room for my body. All is well, even if Chief Engineer Artair MacAskill is a bit concerned about recent stress on the engine.

During morning tea, Ensign Pomeroy Wheatbiscuit III is regaling the crew with a really ripping yarn concerning an Irishman, a yak, and a Lancaster bomber when he swings his arm for emphasis... and slams a poorly-placed level full over. Klaxons sound, lights flash. Women swoon. The Chief Engineer shouts something in his thick Scots accent that, after careful analysis, is revealed to be "You stupid oaf, that's the solid waste shunt! You've locked it wide open!"

Chaos reigns aboard the good ship Douglas. Penguins slide across the deck unrestrained. The captain lashes himself to the wheel (no real reason, he's just into nautical bondage.) The Douglas steers unsteadily into a safe refuge (Hey, you try steering when your body is lashed to the wheel!) when a critical problem is relayed to the bridge by Cognitive Functions.

"Captain! Which Bathroom Reader do we grab?"

"It's going to be a long time, lads.. best grab two."

(fade to black)

OK, not exactly like that, but trust me, this was more fun to read (and write!) than the more realistic story.