"How many skulls are there?" she asked.

"How many skulls are there?" she asked. "Why? You lining them up for a dance?" I said, smirking. "There are four hundred tibiae in that box. Any more than two-fifty and

I won't be able to afford it." Buying bones in bulk at discount was my middle name (try fitting that on a ScanTron sheet and not run out of circles to fill in). Still, I was on

an airplane headed for Nigeria. Some prince emailed and said if I loaned him some cash now, there would be a big pay off. That was two years ago. I am 83 and pissed off

enough to go seeking some Mel Gibson-esque payback. My only concern is around the changing of my Catheter, a painful process but as they say "No pain

no erection." Wait. Maybe that saying is only used in my BDSM play group. Besides which, there's a difference between hospital procedures and indulging in one's kinks. Or is there?

I guess there is a difference. Yeah, there is. No one I knew got any kicks out of open heart surgery or a tracheotomy. Well, all except Dr. Bone, who ironically had priapism.

He'd grind his groin against the operating table as he stitched aortas or slit windpipes, trying his best to quell the throb of that secret stiffy beneath his scrubs. For now, Bone

was definitely homo erectus in a major way. But upon exiting surgery he was served with a malpractice suit which pretty much deflated his

"Write on it" I said icily. Then I turned on my stiletto heels and walked away.