Ok, so this is a gross story. But I’m in the habit of putting nearly everything out there (except for what is between my ears and had never put through or even spoken about in presence of any electronic device), if only so the NSA cannot claim they have anything ‘secret’ on me. It sort of balances things when the public can know what the spies think only they should know. Want my entire sex history? Check my (free online) book ‘Queer Chicken Dinner.’ The NSA has read it. It’s worth a read just to discover the evil joke on Jack Kerouac couched in the title. Too bad the iconic pedophile worshipped by millions drank himself to death rather than lived to read my rebuttal to his ‘On the Road.’

Over this past year I’ve been on hiatus from Berlin, a city of spies and assassins where any moment can be a hairs breath from encounter with a poison pellet for someone like myself. Gee, I must have seriously pissed some evil and powerful people off, prurient examples one, two, three, four & five. Or, if you want the facts rather than the comedy, check my “America’s Deep State” series of articles. This story is tame when compared to the gross closet habits of the ‘deep state’ elite in America’s leadership. Sort of a switch here, the public free to know what the NSA could only wish the public would never discover and perhaps Snowden’s revelations will be the nitro added to my glycerin.

So, I returned to Berlin on one of my madcap journeys intended to strike deeper fear into the informed but cowardly politicians who sit on my story like using a trash can filled with nitro-glycerin for a stool they fear to get off of. I  accomplished what I’d set out to do as they remained paralyzed on the lid of the explosive perch. It would never occur to a politician that if you’d like to defuse an explosive circumstance created by criminals, there is this thing called courage and meeting the problem head on. By now my strategy is to shame them into courageous action, all else having failed. And then, having returned my little village, oh fuck. Here where intelligence agencies dare not tread, actually cannot tread without 200 noses pressed against glass at the sight of any stranger, nature nailed me.

I woke up feeling as though I’d been shot in the left of my abdomen, had to crap and after that began vomiting .. all the while the pain of what seemed a gunshot to my kidney. The projectile that hit me was more than subsonic, as a small calcium pellet had departed the kidney chamber and found its trajectory via the ureter, the barrel of the gun that’d shot me.

So, passing a kidney stone should be straightforward enough, but of course my online medical certification in the subject was only beginning and I made some mistakes, one of them pretty bad. Dehydrated from puking and feeling as though I’d been both, put through the wringer AND run over by a truck, I did not eat and only sipped water for two days, when I should have been both eating and pouring water down like an open ended drain. And then I sorely fucked up by deciding applesauce would be gentle on my belly when reintroducing food. I ate LOTS of applesauce. Pectin. In other words, an organic, epoxy plug. Having survived the stone, now I’d shut down my intestinal tract with a REALLY BINDING constipation.

I turned down an offer of synthetic morphine from an acquaintance because morphine is constipating, I did not need google search to know this and by now I thought the worst of my pain was behind me. Of course it is the meta-data in all of this the National Security Agency finds most valuable, using google-search is like having the NSA read your mind. Natural laxatives, none have worked to now, mint tea, oatmeal, peanut butter (the 100% ground peanuts, no sugar, salt or hydrogenation), nectarines, none of these is working to dissolve the pectin epoxy plug. The NSA having known this much of my experience to now, will have to be disappointed, my having not googled ‘synthetic morphine’ together with ‘constipation’ .. discovering after the fact when reading here, I cannot be busted for an illegal Rush Limbaugh style Oxy-Contin habit.

On day five of my steadily backing up natural sewer, I marvel at the wonder of human creation, by now I’ve reviewed my disbelief in god and find it is quite ok on account of the human inventions, no, rather make that human stupidities associated with the very idea and nothing has changed. Of course science is only equal. What’s missing here? It appears I’ll work that out in some other lifetime.

One cup of olive oil chased by a liter of orange juice and nothing happens. Same again, some hours later and manage an encouraging sign, there is a feeling the pectin plug has budged ¼ inch and I managed to expel a pellet about the diameter of a euro cent. But DON’T DARE push hard on account of the unrepaired hernia that threatens me with holding a fistful of my gut expelled just beneath my right ribcage about six inches from my sternum. In the event that happened, I suppose I could get some tattoo art adding a scrotum, pubic hair and the moniker ‘NSA DICK’ to enhance my hernias appearance and sell myself to a homo-erotic freak show in Paris.

Hospital is not an option, into that sort of data-base with my American Express Platinum emergency medical insurance and the NSA shares it with all of the security services and the CIA’s Dr Mengele would be paying me a visit in short order. Or a concerned Rabbi from MOSSAD. Or perhaps a MI6 ‘doughnut dolly’ wanting to draw a curtain around my bed for an intimate inspection of my anus and insertion of a cyanide suppository.

Oh, a suppository. Well, duh, let’s google that for the NSA’s sake. Homemade? Well, according to google, you are supposed to have thought this out first and had a bar of pure glycerin soap on hand. But, let’s suppose Yankee ingenuity can come up with something. THINK! Do you suppose if one were quick enough, a cold, hard chunk of butter up the anus (before it can melt) might do the trick?

‘Go get the butter’ is probably the worst line in ‘The Last Tango in Paris’ and fucked in the ass is not happening to me now, NOT EVER. Anal sex is just not my thing. But it might titillate the French DGSE:

^ The NSA (him) & the world (her)

As I close this essay together with polishing off a liter of ‘bio-primo pflaumenkur’ (a German prune juice based, internal cleansing concoction), we’ll all find out if it works, that is whether I live to create another essay and post it here… so if you don’t see another, well, it’s been an amazing adventure…

Ron Drawing

Epitaph ‘he tried’


The Satires