I sing the body . . . plastic

I began the week lifted by renewed gratitude for my plastic and rubber body parts.

Early Sunday morning, I was washing a load of clothes in the laundry room of my apartment building. Because the weather in L.A. has been swelteringly hot, I doffed my shirt before stepping out. The sun wasn't even up, and I figured it was safe to go commando outside of my apartment.

Hang around my neighborhood long enough, and you'll see sights that are far more shocking than a man sporting a plastic hose from his tummy.

As I was transferring wet, laundered clothes to the dryer, my G-tube dangled low and I accidentally slammed the door with half of my G-tube inside in the dryer.

If the G-tube was comprised of flesh and nerve endings, I would have let out an Edvard Munch-like silent scream and buckled over atop the dryer, probably unconscious. By the time the cycle ended and I came to, my tube would have been charred like a hot dog left on the grill too long and I would have had second-degree burns on my face.

Instead, with nary a wince, I simply popped the dryer door open and calmly freed my fake appendage.

I'm taping my G-tube to my shoulder for the duration of this heat wave.