I went and saw my doctor this afternoon, and after running through the symptoms I'm experiencing, he scowled and double checked his clip board.
"Hmm," he said. "There's just one more thing I need to check."
At this point, I dejectedly turned around and began dropping trou.
"Whoa there!" he said with a chuckle as he grabbed my shoulder turning me back around to face him. "Not so fast.. that's not what I need to check."
At this point, relief washed over me, and if I weren't already flushed from my fever, I would've been from embarassment.
He then placed his stethoscope (the one he apparently keeps on ice) on my chest and commanded me to take a deep breath.
"Mmm hmm," he mumbled concernedly. "It's just as I feared. You see, you've got the Rockin' Pneumonia. And as if that weren't enough, you also have quite a case of the Boogie Woogie Flu as well. You haven't by any chance spent some time in Las Vegas recently have you? If you haven't, I really can't recommend it, that place is a shithole..."
I quickly interrupted him. "Yeh, I was in Vegas a couple weeks ago... I know what you mean... Shit. Hole. So... is there anything I can do?"
"Well, for this type of fever, there's really only one cure.."
At this point, I once again dejectedly turned around and began to drop trou.
"Whoa there cowboy," he interrupted again. "Who do you think I am, Brokeback M. D.? What I was going to say was, 'for this type of fever, there's really only one cure: cowbell.' "
"Cowbell? But, I'm already taking 500mg of cowbell," I protested.
"More cowbell. The only cure for this fever is more cowbell."
At this point, I woke up in the waiting area at Walgreens, where I had fallen asleep waiting for my prescriptions to be filled.
The pharmacist called me up to the counter, scanned the folded over white bag and said, "These little white ones? These you swallow." He then held up a bag of the largest yellow pills I have ever seen. "But these yellow ones..."
I simply held up my hand halting him, nodded my head dejectedly and turned around and dropped trou.
I'm not at all sure why, but I just thought of something from my past that I still find extremely disturbing. I'm going to try to make an effort to share these types of things from now on.
One day, while living in Alaska, I spied a large* bumblebee lumbering towards me. I suppose that it would be more accurate to say I heard it lumbering towards me, as it was the sound which drew my attention to it, causing me to turn in the direction it was coming from.
I turned just in time to see it inches from my face; I screamed and attempted to jump backwards, but this was completely in vain. I felt the scrapety scrape-scrape of membraneous wings on my eyebrows a split second before the bumblebee slammed forcefully into my forehead.
My screaming backwards lunge resulted in me being sprawled out on the ground. To a passerby it would probably look as if I had just been shot in the head with a large, black and yellow, erratically travelling bullet. From my new ground-level vantage point, I got an excellent view of the dazed bumblebee lying inches from my face. It was completely covered in baby spiders, who were swarming (and presumedly attacking) as if their tiny little lives depended on it.
I'm not sure how the bumblebee (or the spiders) got into this situation, but that image will be forever burned into my brain -- despite the fact that the actual spider-covered bee didn't actually bore into it.
*: in Alaska, all the insects are gigantic. The state bird is actually the mosquito, if that gives you any idea.
Have you ever found yourself lying on your back under the kitchen table, mind all foggy, black sparks of pain shooting from that place right between your eyes and wondered just how the hell you got there?
Did you then bring your hand up to your face only to discover that the cause of the shooting black pain sparks seems to be a large tender place where your nose ordinarily would be making a solid connection to the rest of your face?
Did you then bump your head on the underside of the table as you shakily made your way to your feet? Isn't it strange how you seem to shake your head and go "aiaiaiai" like Chester Cheeta (It's not easy, you know; being cheesy) completely automatically upon returning to the land of the upright? Did you wonder why the hell you just did that?
Did you find it odd as the black colors began to fade away, slowly being replaced by confusing memories? What was so important about leaning over the bathroom sink to splash water on your face? Why did you remember feeling ill and clammy? What's the significance of an electric drill?
As you realized that the bathroom sink splashing was in response to the clammy nauseousness, did you experience any kind of epiphany? Did you suddenly start to recall sitting in your computer chair and making the decision to walk to the bathroom and splash cold water on your face? Upon remembering that, did you suddenly remember being bent over the sink, cold water dripping off your face and hands, black specks beginning to slowly fill your vision? Does realizing that you might want to go lay down on the couch for a minute so that you don't pass out ring a bell?
How about realizing that you aren't actually going to make it to the couch? That do anything for the old memory? You know that strange feeling? The one like the world is rolling up like some kind of crazy messed up window shade as your body falls face-first onto the back of the wooden futon frame between you and the nice soft leather couch? I bet you don't really remember breaking the crap out of your nose right before your whole limp body slumped off the back of the futon, rolling you onto your back where you eventually came to rest beneath the kitchen table. I'm guessing the events between falling towards the futon and groggily lying beneath the table are lost forever, but luckily it isn't too difficult to CSI yourself a realistic time line of events.
Did you start to remember what made you feel nauseous in the first place then? Did the pain in your broken nose and the confusion about the missing time not quite outweigh the feeling of utter stupidity? Did the knowledge that you passed out as a result of reading a story about a guy who convinced his friends to undergo a trepanning operation on him make you feel weak, embarrassed and incredibly pathetic?
When I was in the 3rd grade, our class had a visit from a local fire department. They came out in full uniform, many sporting the blues typically worn around the firehouse, several wearing the full-on yellow fire gear typical 8 year-olds expect firefighters to wear. They talked about the things you would expect them to: fire safety, respect for teachers and administrators, the importance of doing well in school so that a career in firefighting would be open to you should you be interested. At that age of course, everyone is interested.
After letting a lucky few try on the gear, climb onto the ladder truck and pet the ever-present dalmation, the subject of the talk took a dramatic and unexpected turn. Toothbrushes. It seems that good dental hygiene is second only to actual fires in the concerns of today's firemen. After giving out goody bags that contained pencils, erasers, toothbrushes and floss, they spent time on proper brushing technique and frequency (circular motions on each tooth, not side to side), the proper technique and frequency for flossing. Finally, they dispensed these cool pink tablets that you were to chew after brushing to learn just how bad a job you were doing, where you could use the most improvement, and how big a mess you could make with little pink tablets. As you can imagine, and entire class of 3rd graders was soon walking around with enormous pink stains all over their teeth.
To this day, I'm still not sure what the actual connection between firefighters and dentistry is, or how much of my parents tax dollars were spent to pay a group of off-duty firement to screw around at a grade school for the day, but I'll always think of firemen when brushing my teeth. Regardless of tax dollars spent, the program was apparently successful; I'm happy to report that I have never had a cavity, and I'm pretty sure I have a group of beefy guys in funny pants to thank for it.
I recently learned that my great great great grandfather was a travelling snake-oil miracle-cure potion salesman who had some mild success in his declining years. It seems that people trust you more when your hair and beard are mottled with white. In any case, I was going through some of his things in this old steamer trunk that I was sent after he passed away and discovered a poster for one of his most successful campaigns. I hope you don't mind me sharing it with you, but please check out the high resolution version by clicking on it as I he spent alot of time on it.
Bob and Joe decide to sign up for college and take some classes together. They signed up for a Logics class, but after the first day, they had second thoughts.
Bob: I dunno about this class, it's not what I thought it would be.
Joe: I know, it's too hard, I don't get it.
Bob: Well I'm going to my advisor and withdraw.
Off he goes to his advisor and begins complaining about how difficult Logics class is. Bob's advisor listens carefully and begins to persuade Bob to give it a chance.
Advisor: Look, Bob it's not that difficult. It works like this -- Bob do you have a lawnmower?
Bob: Sure I got a lawnmower.
Advisor: Ok that tells me you have a lawn.
Bob: Well sure, I got a lawn.
Advisor: You got a lawn, then you probably own your own home.
Bob: Well yah, yah I do.
Advisor: Okay then, that tells me you're most likely married.
Bob: Wow, you're right on the target. I'm married.
Advisor: And you have kids, right?
Advisor: You're married with children; that tells me you're heterosexual.
Bob: Amazing, you can tell all that, just 'cuz I own a lawnmower. Okay I get it I see how you do this. I'll give the class a try.
Bob runs off to find his friend, Joe. Once he finds Joe, he starts persuading Joe not to drop Logics class.
Bob: Look Joe, I went to the advisor, and he explained how this class works. It's pretty simple really. I'll show you. Joe, do you have a lawnmower?
Joe (looking puzzled): No.
Bob surprized, thinks for a moment then quietly says, "faggot."