And so what if Ashton Kutcher did the deed at the house while Demi was away. As Laurel Blasingame sat in the sticky vinyl seat, she tried to move from her right dominant cheek position to the left, the too large flat screen showed flashes of the May-December couple in happy times. Laurel couldn't sit up straight. And she didn't give a fig about an overrated actor and a balloon breasted cougar. The pokey eyed reporter said the object of the Punk'd star's extra passion is a 21 year old named, Brittany Jones. Right, Brittany Jones. Ahem. The Star, a news rag of some dubious standing, has published some sample Ashton-Brittany texts, which were now flashing on the monitor,
[After their tryst--and for over a month after their initial meeting--they continued texting and, in one exchanged Brittney asked, "Whens the next time you're gonna have an empty house?" To which Ashton replied, "Not sure maybe the end of the month." Noting at the time he was "w/ my daughter."]
The gawking talking head related that the Star asserted that it had exclusive photos of Ms. Jones. The snaps were not yet released. Of course, that's what Laurel and everybody else wanted to see. What did this temptress look like? Imagine HER besting Demi... Same old saw, man dumps older woman for younger and fresher girl.
Blasingame is a relative of Don of the same surname. Known as "Blazer", the distant cousin played big league baseball as a second baseman for 5 teams; St. Louis, Cincinnati, San Francisco, Washington and Kansas City.
With a career average of .258, he was a paradigm journeyman. Don died at the age of 73 in 2005. Laurel is going to die soon if she doesn't get someone to treat her hemorrhoid. And fish eyes continued, "Mr. Kutcher, who was born on February 7, 1978 in Cedar Rapids, Iowa.... " "Ms. Blasingame, the doctor will see you now." A woman with askew screwdriver (blade) teeth fake smiled Laurel back to exam room 6. Even with the grape of agony hanging on what seemed the floor, the only word that the sufferer could think of was 'orthodontia'.
Dr. Blaine Tucker, Blaron City's only proctologist, is a character. Indeed, anyone, who spent their professional career as a rear port man, had to be a character. After all. A short man, he always wore a long white doctor coat, which hemmed at his ankles, making him look like a snow pile. The snow pile with a cherry head, a white mustache and wire rimmed glasses was well liked because he cared. His peculiarities included eating dry Cheerios twice a day, having a poster of Claire Danes
in his office and hating tied shoes.
Laurel never had a problem with hemorrhoids, ever. Her dilemma began two nights ago when she was pushing so hard to deliver the goods that she felt pain and she saw some blood. She had no idea that Percocet could cause constipation and it was that constipation which led to the Elvis-like effort to deliver. If she had known about that side effect of Percocet she would have taken softners. If only she hadn't broken her left wrist. Indeed.
As instructed by Lurch, Laurel stripped off her bottoms, kept on her Rutgers tee shirt and put on the too big inelegant paper gown. First, she was open in the front, but then she switched it to be open in the back. The back is where the action will be. Laurel had no way to know that the Snow Pile was going to slice into that violaceous little ball of pain. If she knew, she would have vamoosed.
Leaning on the left, she heard "thrombosed 'rhoid in 6" just before the thundering herd came into the room. Dr. Tucker led the party of four, which other than him consisted of two medical students and the woman with the Swiss Army Knife equipped mouth. "Hope you don't mind the students looking in...", Doc said to the floor. He was looking down at his shoe laces, which were both untied. Before Laurel could answer (she wanted to say she did but she was so sweat nervous her mouth was too dry to talk), Tuck and the students were gloved up.
"Only takes a minute, dear, RE-LAX, er, roll on your left side, er how long it been hot?..."
As Laurel tried to talk, she felt that chubby right index finger of the rear axle flip the aching marble as if he was a mibster going for the whole pot.
"Yeeeooow" she screamed like a scalded lobster (yes, lobsters scream, but humans can't hear them). Laurel wondered if Demi Moore was screaming like that at her younger paramour?
"OK, OK, RE-LAX..." Laurel wanted to shove those words down into the Snow Pile's esophagus.
"Give me an 11!"
Nurse Snaggle Tooth grunted. Laurel heard a few wrappers being unfoiled. Tucker was explaining that the best option was the cruciate. Laurel didn't know that he meant an "X" type incision.
And she didn't know that Tucker and the students didn't use any anesthesia, since they reasoned by the time they made the incision the pain would be relieved. Immediately. The local anesthesia application would add nothing, but it would prolong the agony.
When the healer hit that hemorrhoid with the sharp tip of the 11 blade, Laurel Blasingame thought she saw the light at the end of the tunnel. Only when she got up a few minutes later did she realize that the scarlet tee shirt was soaked through and the examining table paper looked like wet Charmin.
She blurted, "Oh my God (she couldn't have meant Tucker's god since he was godless), er, I feel better."
On the Mayo stand, a hunk of coagulated blood was sprawled out on a 4x4. Now that it was released, the pressure in that venous space and the pain were gone. Like really gone.
The degloving Tucker mouthed, "Spurling, give her the usual instructions and set her up for a scope next week." And out he and the pets went, like a blizzard looking for a new place to roost. Even though Laurel had shown her junk to four total strangers, somehow she didn't care. It's like that when you're beholding.
As she waited by the reception desk to square up some billing and to arrange next week's scope, a voice, seemingly out of nowhere announced, "fissure in 2." Like dervishes, Snow Pile, two medical students and a nurse (not Spurling) charged into that room. Laurel had to laugh, hard. The thought of some wet victim in a too big paper gown lying there, in some state of disrepair, somehow was funny. As she left the office, a shiver went down her spine. In just a week, the announcer in Tucker's office is going to bleat, "Scope in x" and Laurel won't be laughing. Rather, she will again be perspiring as if she were in a sauna. As the door closed behind her, the cool September air refreshed and cooled her. She couldn't help but wonder if Ashton had been sweating, too.
And so it goes...
