My Singular Adventure With NutriTube®.

Characteristically, in the evenings when my caretaker would arrive to initiate the feeding procedure, usually by attaching the NutriTube® with a keen gadget she carried in her case to the meadow-facing sprill, I would for the most part only be leaking the thinnest portion of the black fluid from beneath my left prosthetic vent. On this particular night, she didn't seem so much in some kind of hurry, as just not her normal self in ways that caused me to adjust myself to the extent the binders would allow. These new Eastern European models, while less expensive, never didn't cause extensive, if harmless swelling.

As she began the countdown this time, I noticed the slightest tremor in her left knee, since it was, as usual, at eye level which allowed her maximum leverage. This was something that by itself wouldn't cause me any alarm but for the fact that the very same left knee (of which she had two) was now lacking both diodes and the tripwire assembly which enabled the stealth for which she's well regarded throughout the Valley. You see, after I'd impregnated her younger brother and he was forced into exile, I resolved never to again remove any of the African violets which ornamented the ten-quarter healing stand which, in effect, stood watch over each and every procedure. Doctor's orders; you know how it is.

It was only when I found myself coming to in a non-local velvety blankness, that the realization slowly dawned that not only was I not 'in Kansas anymore', but, truly, the papers I'd struggled to preserve for the prior twelve and one half seconds had seemingly vanished even as they'd vanquished my doltish prime opponent on the Appropriations Committee. My 'body', if you could call it that, was now reduced to the orifice attached to the NutriTube®, only one vent (the central one) and three or four small metallic branching contours without which I'd never ride a bike again.

If you knew what I went through in the years that followed, you would certainly seek my nomination as Humanitarian of the Year. But, as some might be aware, I've never sought the limelight. Never have, never will. By the way, if anyone has any bright ideas on how one might initiate a micro-stripmining contest among the Middle School retards I plan on leading into a totally avoidable, if somewhat amusing, disaster, please don't hesitate to drop me a note at the office tomorrow before six PM when my  suicide should be finalized. It might actually do you some good. It won't hurt to try, right? 

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Note to readers: As documented and affirmed by the date stamp

above the title, this entry is indeed posted on April 1,2020. However

it is vitally important that no one interpret that as in any way averring,

or even subtly implying, that this is any sort of so-called 'April Fools

Day' prank, joke or hair-brained knackerie. This disclosure is all-

inclusive, i.e. title, text and accompanying images while not necessarily

'true', are meant in deadly earnest. Anyone who doubts this is invited to

sit beside me while I read the Holy Bible during a Solar Eclipse while

blindfolded and dealing forthrightly with the 'heartbreak of psoriasis'.

Thank you and good night. You'll need it.