Me: I was thinking that it’s high time I gave you a roast.
Stomach: Whoa, I thought we had sworn off…
Me: No. it’s not that kind. Yes, we’ve sworn off red meat, which, you’ll recall, from our negotiations, the final agreement allows two Bic Macs a month. But now I’m referring to the kind of roast where your admirers drink toasts to you and give attaboy speeches. And since no one knows you like I do, I feel entitled to make the first oration. To wit:
The heart, liver and brain, all prima donners,
Have been lavished with far too many honors,
While you continue your work of digestion,
Your labors oft’ marred by too much congestion.
The throat worsens your stress with hiccups and burps.
The tongue sends cascades of saliva and slurps.
And I know that nothing makes you madder
Than backup of bile from that nasty gall bladder.
Yes, I know I have been guilty as well,
I’ve made you a furnace of raging hell.
I’m sorry that when I was young and hale
I quite nearly drowned you in beer and ale.
Too often I made your life quite hellish,
Like when I downed those four hot dogs with relish,
Followed by a chocolate banana cream pie.
Remember? The day when we thought we might die?
Then came crash diets that gave you the blahs:
The fasts and fads by doctors Adkins and Oz
You groaned and asked me why in tarnation
I was making you die of acute starvation.
In time you struck back. You’ve caused indigestion.
And flatulence in my lower intestine.
Now I take pills to fight reflux from acid.
I live scarcely a day when you’ve been placid.
Yet, looking back I would say all in all,
We should call this lifelong contest a draw.
So let’s drink some toasts to Stomach, my friend,
(Followed by Tums when the evening ends.)