Ha ha, well to cheer me up this morning, my sister told me that Elvis had 40 pounds of poop in his bowel when he died, the poor fat bastard was probably trying to push it out when he had a massive heart attack and ended up in heartbreak hotel........
It reminded me of my mate Pete. Pete and I were in the Army together, but while I was a fit and healthy specimen of a young up and coming Sergeant Major, Pete, a few years my senior, had some health issues had not progressed as rapidly promotion wise, partially because he had a heart attack at age 32, and had been medically downgraded.
We worked together as military warehouse auditors, possibly one of the most boring jobs known to man, but each interstate trip away was always an adventure. Pete, who was my assistant, would make all the bookings, so even though an inspection would usually take no more than 2 days, each trip went for a week, so Pete and I could tour the area in the hire car, catch a movie, and go pistol shooting. Pete was/still is a gun nut, so we'd find a range, hire some guns (a .22 for me because I wasn't really interested, and a .357/44 magnum, .50 Desert Eagle etc for Pete, whatever he could get his sweaty paws on) and blast away until Pete satisfied his need for target destruction.
Anyway, we'd planned a trip to Townsville in Far North Queensland. The plan was the same as always, meet in the Qantas Club on Monday for a free brekky, fall asleep on the plane which hopefully would be close to empty, drink free booze at QC in Townsville, pick up the hire car and settle into the hotel. We were on daily meal allowances, but we rarely ate anywhere expensive, Pete saved all his dough so every other month he had enough to buy a new pistol, without his wife Nancy finding out. So we ate and drank well at the Qantas club, but everywhere else it was Macca's breakfasts, a salad roll for lunch etc, fish and chips for dinner, etc.
Nancy rang me up on Saturday to say that Pete had been admitted to hospital with a suspected heart attack. Fcuk! OK, I rang my boss, told him, cancelled everything, and just fronted up for work on Monday. I arrived at work, and Pete was already there! I said, "Aren't you supposed to be in hospital mate?" And he looked at me sheepishly and said "It wasn't a heart attack." I said, "Well what the fcuk was it?" and he replied, "Blocked Bowel". "What?" I said. "I said, it was a fcuking blocked bowel!" Ha ha, back then there was a diet craze called "The soup diet". You'd make up a big pot of thickly cut veggies, add some stock, let it simmer away until it was at the consistency that you liked, then you replaced your pies and sausage rolls etc with the soup, and you lost weight.
The problem was Pete had cut up his carrots a bit too large, and he must have deep throated the one he swallowed that blocked his bowel, but anyway, it plugged him good, and Pete being Pete, he kept eating, and after a week or so, he was getting sweaty and short of breath not to mention very uncomfortable. He rang the doc and they sent an ICU ambulance around to get him, but when they X Rayed him and saw a bowel the size of a soccer ball, they all fell about laughing, gave him an industrial strength laxative, a magazine and pointed him towards the crapper. They'd weighed him on admission, and again on discharge, and he's lost 13 pounds. That still makes me laugh!
