Butt-holer.
I am getting a bit weary from doctors sticking their lubricated fingers up my butt-hole and amiably fondling my feeble and shy genitalia (gen-Italia?) and telling me to cough. I've been going through my annual physical this week and a prostate exam too and am scheduled for another colonoscopy next month and carotid artery investigation, all this testing that dares pretend to extend our lives. I don't mind any of that except for the colonoscopy prep with its pre-test fasting and induced voluminous shitting-out-of-the-entrails. It is hunger-inducing and grim.
Fuck, already! Vaffanculo!
Like, penetrate your own fucking culo! Void your own fucking bowels!
I'd rather be watching the Italian movies I can't keep up with as they pour in from collector friends, such as the 1939 one in the newpaper ad below, which is both my LJ nom-de-plume and the story of my (soap)-operatic existence. I'd rather be going to concerts and operas, like Bizet's Les Pêcheurs de perles / The Pearl Fishers, which I see tomorrow and am creaming my jeans over in anticipation. Oops, can't cream. My urologist says I can't ejaculate in the 24 hours before my PSA blood-test this Monday. Vietato eiaculare. Cruel world. Che mondo crudele!
Fuck, already! Vaffanculo!
Like, penetrate your own fucking culo! Void your own fucking bowels!
I'd rather be watching the Italian movies I can't keep up with as they pour in from collector friends, such as the 1939 one in the newpaper ad below, which is both my LJ nom-de-plume and the story of my (soap)-operatic existence. I'd rather be going to concerts and operas, like Bizet's Les Pêcheurs de perles / The Pearl Fishers, which I see tomorrow and am creaming my jeans over in anticipation. Oops, can't cream. My urologist says I can't ejaculate in the 24 hours before my PSA blood-test this Monday. Vietato eiaculare. Cruel world. Che mondo crudele!