Awakenings

March hasn't started off too hot for neither the peninsula (literally*) nor Psychedelic Kitchen Sink (figuratively). This past Sunday, over sweet potato bubble tea and strawberry cream puffs, Chicken Wire** explained to me that he's been experiencing creative lethargy vis a vis your favorite blogger's favorite blog. I told him that I, too, was in a like funk. Nevertheless, I said, much like constipation, writer's block/a silent muse/a shortage of mind-altering psychoactives works its way out in the end.

In the end. I would discover the following day just how cruelly prophetic those words were. Literally.

Monday began like it typically does, with me waking up close to noon, hungover, hungry, and

(horny)

thirsty. A lunch consisting of Pizzeria Pretzel Combos and 7 Up remedied that, but a few hours later a new ailment started to rear its ugly head: diarrhea, known colloquially to some as the runs or the shits. Both are concise, accurate descriptions of what occurs.

It doesn't take a medical expert*** to hypothesize that the cause of my hyper-frequent bowel movements was fucking Combos and 7 Up for lunch, but trust me, that was not the ca(u)se here, unless Mars, Inc. is also using the same hydrolyzed vegetable protein Basic Food Flavors supplied Proctor and Gamble****.

I've had a lot of time to guess what exactly caused my current bout with severe gastroenteritis (stomach flu for you laypeople). Was it karma? The Magic 8-Ball says "possibly." To prudish or pretentious diners, my recent post about hedonistic, just-don't-give-a-fuck eating might indicate poetic justice. Before scarfing down Combos for lunch on Monday, I ate raw oysters, fish, pussy, and Senegalese baby eyeballs for dinner two days prior. Certainly, that's a recipe for bacterial infection (and parasites, and Fruit Chan horror vignettes); but as of now all signs point to a viral infection, thank God and KRS ONE.

Back in 2004, before I started this vaunted blog, before Jikko got hooked on painkillers, I had a bout of gastroenteritis that lasted nearly two weeks. I lost five kilograms. I drank a lot of Gatorade. I slept on the floor in front of my bathroom door***** for reasons I hope I don't have to explain, at least not before a tribunal. It was hell.

Besides that, I remember very little. The stomach flu

(that saved Pittsburgh)

and the Boston Red Sox winning their first World Series in 86 years is all I can Lauren Recall about 2004. It's best that way.

Thankfully, 2010's gastroenteritis hasn't been nearly as bad. It's two days later and I'm beginning to feel some semblance of normalcy. I can eat solid food again after two straight days of 죽 (rice pooridge), and the hair on my palms is starting to grow back. Furthermore, the hours I spent unable to sleep because I had to dash to the toilet every five minutes taught me a valuable lesson about film: I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry is by no means a good movie, but it's fine fare when you're awake at four in the morning, suffering from superlative anal reverse-geysers.

I've convalesced enough, and while I'm not one-hundred percent out of the woods the Pope shits in, I feel pretty good right now. I feel kinda invincible, actually.

This calls for a celebration. It's time to replenish fluids and electrolytes in the form of bourbon and saltine crackers!

Joking aside, I'll do my best to ensure that March goes out on PK as it should have come in: like a lion.

It feels god to be alive again, Constant Retards. That wasn't a typo.

Love,

Mumm-Ra Lazarus


* It's spring here, yet today I woke up to find the landscape blanketed in snow. There's a reason I'm not in Canada, Korea. Now hurry up and bring me my 황사!

** aka the Licorice Lawnmower

*** Have I ever mentioned that my wife is a doctor? She is. Dr. Yoo to me, Dr. Feelgood to Jikko. Legs administers health advice for free and dispenses pills like beads at Mardis Gras.

**** Oh, how the mighty have fallen. First the snackfood quality-and-pricing scandal that rocked Asia, and now Salmonella. For shame, P&G. For shame.

***** Pauly Shore, Zsa Zsa Gabor, "My Cherie Amour," Younge and Bloor