Annual Physical

I'm lazy and just getting started on blogging, I'm only adding to this because I've recently had my yearly physical and boy are things looking great.

My vasectomy is holding up, so that's good. It's not good that my cholesterol is approaching the same numbers as my SAT scores. But it is good that I scored so low on my SAT scores. See? There's good in every thing. I hate going to the doctor but usually that's because of the doctor. But this day, things got started in the waiting room where they wanted me to fill out more forms.

I thought they had computers to hold all this information, but apparently they still don't know who my "Emergency contact" is. Are you kidding me? Most people put their mother or husband, or even God. But I always put my Doctor's name there. Who better to call in case of an emergency? Seriously, is my Doctor going to be doing something in there with me and suddenly come across something he can't handle?

"Well Brad, it appears everything is in order here... WAIT, what the hell is that thing? Quick I need to call... (looking at my paperwork) well, look, it's me. Geez, I'm not sure I'm the right guy for you Brad. But I'll give it a shot."

So I always glance at the name plaques on the wall and grab the first name that is racially or ethnically juxtaposed to my doctor. Meaning, if my doctor is a white male, I'll choose "Dr. Samantha Wong", I like to think it bothers them, but they don't give a shit. And they shouldn't because you want your doctor to be confident and sure. I want the above conversation to go like this:

"Well Brad, it appears everything is in order here... WAIT, what the hell is that thing? Quick I need to call... (looking at my paperwork) Dr. Samantha Wong? Are you kidding me? She couldn't diagnose leprosy on you if you left your hand and arm with her for a week . Dr. Wong's a retard. I better handle this myself. ... Brad, you have leprosy.

OK, maybe I don't want to have leprosy, but I'm pretty sure I'm going to have or at least working toward obtaining cirrhosis of the liver. I'm getting older and these visits mean more than just something I had to do in order to play sports as a kid. They are starting to get life serious. But I can't get serious. Life and other people in it are just too funny.

Glancing at the form again, I see my favorite question about whether I drink or not and how much. I always answer 'no' on the form because I'm usually already drunk for these physicals. They know it's a lie so they just ask me directly;

"Mr. Myers, when and how much do you drink?"

"This would go quicker if I told you when I didn't drink."

Don't judge me-- I have a male doctor and if you're a dude and you're gonna tumble my jumblies, one of us HAS to be drunk. And apparently, I can't rely on my doctor to be my emergency contact so I can't trust that he's been drinking before my appointment. I'd appreciate it more if he did-- his hands and fingers would be warmer. He has nice hands. Not gay.

By the time I'm in the back working with the doctor on my "wellness plan", I'm getting pretty sober. Rubbing alcohol is not the answer. I'm flying solo while he goes on about "fat belly" this and "lose weight now" that, and some other crap about lesions and hair loss. Seriously, this guys isn't funny at all and I'm starting to feel like he just isn't in to me. I get that a lot. This visit ended wonderfully because he never reached for the box of latex gloves and I never got the poke-and-prod.

I bounced out of that office, I was so happy. All we did was ridicule me about my eating habits and lack of exercise habits. We didn't do any exploratory things in my private area. Which I am fine with because I feel this way: If there's something up there that's going to kill me, I say just let it be. I'd do the same for you, because I care.

Anyway, I was feeling great and I left his office high-fiving people, hugging pretty ladies, and opening doors for fat ones, I even picked up a kid by his arms and did that spinning airplane thing and said, "Way to go little guy!" and I skipped out the door. I tossed my keys from hand to hand in joyful glee when I was pushed from behind into a parked Camry. By the time I turned around to see what hit me, that little kid was on me like clear jelly on Spam. He bit the inside of my thigh just above my left knee and I screamed like a girl and hit the ground, clutched my leg and cried, "WHY?"

That little punk flicked a cigarette butt at me, turned away and said, "We prefer to be called little people, you jackass. And I hope you die!" I couldn't believe it. He bit me! Just before I passed out from the pain I said to myself, "Do midgets have rabies?" My eyes closed but I could hear tiny footsteps getting faster and louder and closer. Crap, I must have said that out lo...