Once upon a time there was a princess. Sort of a princess. She was a little old to be a princess, frankly, and had been married twice so probably had no business even pretending to be a princess but it’s my damn story and I’m going to be a princess!
Once upon a time there was a princess and she was being taken out to a grand meal by her (bald, goateed) prince to celebrate a war and famine free trip together around the sun (that little skirmish about feline incarceration notwithstanding). And to celebrate, the princess wanted to wear her new, breezy, floral halter-style blouse.
The princess, it should be mentioned, wears a 38C (sometimes D) in the lingerie department. She is not the most svelte princess in the kingdom.
But for the most part the princess is satisfied with her hour-glassyness.
However, in order to wear the new, breezy, floral halter-style blouse and not look like a reject from the Naval Buoy Test Program, certain fortifications, shall we say, were essential.
Let’s assume, in a spatial-planning sort of way, that you were considering taking a shape roughly the size of the innocent-looking bustier up there and overlaying it over something roughly the shape of a giant, pasty-colored egg. You’d have a diagram that looked something like this.
You would look at this diagram, and the part of your brain that passed high-school geometry says, “Oh no, this isn’t good. This can’t possibly work. Put that innocent-looking bustier away this very instant. That cannot possibly be good for that pasty-colored egg.”
But sometimes the princess, despite having an advanced degree, running fairly large rehabilitation departments, and starting her own business, is not very bright. You will wonder in fact, by the end of this story, how the hell she accomplished all those things and you will perhaps consider reporting the university that issued the degree to various accreditation agencies.
And once that feat of physics and biology-defying maneuvering had been accomplished, the princess donned the new, breezy, floral halter-style blouse, did her hair, brought in the team from Industrial Light and Magic to do her make-up, and headed out the door with the prince to a night of cocktails and fine dining.
Before even leaving the driveway, the princess noticed a twinge under her rib cage. She ignored it. As the evening wore on, the twinge became a little more persistent, something more like this:
It turns out that the gall bladder would prefer to live a quiet life, happily aiding the digestions system, going about its business, reading the occasional Maeve Binchy novel and NOT getting crushed by a whalebone stay embedded in a corset-style bustier that an idiotic princess decides to squish herself into for the sake of wearing a fetching frock. And then, if while it is getting crushed, it gets forced to deal with a prime rib dinner with garlic bread and potato (oh, and fried calamari that was just to die for), then it will get really, really pissed off.
And the gall bladder, it turns out, is capable of voicing its unhappiness in profound ways. Ways that will get you sent to the emergency room by your primary care physician.
Which is why the princess and the prince spent the day after their anniversary in an exam room at their local emergency department, where the princess got her arse injected by painkillers (which she was very, very grateful for).
And this is why next year the prince and princess are considering a rousing night of Parcheesi to celebrate.