“Well now, I think we have enough images,” the handsome technician said, suppressing a laugh.
The magic bed moved backwards into freedom, bringing along the putrid stench of decay. I was mortified as my imaginary meadow became a ravaged pasture full of rotting manure. What in the hell had I eaten? I avoided eye contact with the timid technician and hobbled back to the dressing room. Once again, I accepted my fate of being the perpetual, reluctant clown, the oddball, the one who farts during a complicated medical procedure.
If I ever need another MRI, I’ll request a facility in Texas. Everyone farts there.