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Thursday, December 31, 2009



I had my annual physical last week, which has over the years been reduced to a yearly platform for cheap comedy. Less cheap than it used to be, since my co-payment keeps going up.

First come the delicate negotiations with the nurse. She tells me to put on one of those ridiculous gowns where everything but your fat ass is covered. Those seem silly and degrading, and even if I am undergoing surgery I try to wake up in the middle and remove it. So I of course refuse, and opt for my underwear instead. She measures my height, and she starts to write down 6-foot-two, but I keep her there as I lean in every direction until it comes out 6-foot-two and a quarter. I almost fell over, which caused her to write a few things that she would not show me. My weight isn’t bad, especially when I tell her that my watch weighs 5 lbs. She again made a couple notations that did not look like subtraction. She takes my blood pressure, which is exemplary, and I keep her there, threatening to walk out in my underwear unless she agrees with me. In the interest of decorum, she does, but I can see HER blood pressure might be rising dangerously. Then, inexplicably, even though I have been technically alive for the past 10 minutes, she takes my pulse. I figure I must be exhibiting dangerous vital signs, but even so I can’t resist shouting out indiscriminate numbers to try and throw her off. She looks at her watch for an entire minute, but I am still alive.

Then the doctor finally shows up, we shake hands, and he gives me a cold as usual. He says, “Time to check your ear,” and I bend over the table, misunderstanding him. He sticks in that cold ear-checking device which is shaped like a Pez dispenser. Sticks it in my ear I mean. He tells me something that I can’t hear because there is a Pez dispenser in my ear, but I bend over again just in case. He puts the ear thing away and tells me to open wide. My mouth he means. I say “Ah,” and not in a good way, as he puts that popsicle stick in my mouth, which my tongue finds depressing. I picture him eating a big fat popsicle before he sees each patient. Then he puts the freezing stethoscope on various parts of my body as if I am a lumpy checkerboard. He tells me to cough, which I have already been doing since he gave me the cold. He doesn’t ask me to sneeze but I do anyway just in case.

He tells me to sit down, and whacks my knee cap with a little hammer as if I didn’t pay back a teensy weensy loan, and so I kick him in the nuts with my other foot and he stops. Then he says it’s time to check my prostate. I bend over again, and this time he reads me my rights ands slaps a set of handcuffs on me.

Then he sends me down to the lab where they tell me they are going to do a couple tests, draw my blood, and that I have to pee into a cup. First they hook my nipples up to a machine. I assumed that there was a similar machine hooked up to a chimpanzee’s nipples, and that after they treated me with this machine, my nipples would then take on the characteristics of the chimpanzee’s nipples, and vice versa, since I saw a similar thing on Gilligan’s Island once. But it turned out to be just an EKG. By the way, wouldn’t EKG stand for Electro- Kardiogram? Seems sort of Krispy Kreme-y kutesy to me. Anyway, it measures your heart function. I asked the tech a question: What if I have a heart transplant- wouldn’t I then be likely to fall in love with the former owner’s widow? The lab tech said not to move, especially my lips.

Then she hands me a little plastic cup and tells me to pee into it. I tell her I misunderstood what she said earlier, and that she better wash her coffee cup. The one they give me is like a little plastic shot glass- it takes me forever, since I suffer from anxiety that it is going to overflow. Then it’s time to draw blood. I tell her I’m afraid of needles- I don’t even like pine trees, and can’t she get the blood another way? She says she has to do it this way so I tell her that her rubber gloves make her look fat. She punches me in the nose and we don’t need the needle after all.

She sends me back up to the doctor’s office. He asks me if I smoke, and I reply only if I’m close to bursting into flames. He asks me if I do drugs, and I say why do you have anything? He asks me if I drink and I say I do get shit-faced but only in moderation. Then we discuss my medical history, which means didn’t I use some of these same jokes last year?

Incidentally, It is also recommended that you give your pet a thorough going over at least once a year, or every seven years, depending on your point of view. For instance, if you notice an unsightly discharge coming from the mouth area, that’s pretty much normal. Also, if you detect a foul odor coming from the coat, that means your dog probably sat on it.

Provided by website-hit-counters.com site.

Tuesday, December 8, 2009



We went to a Thanksgiving party which was cleverly disguised as a 50th birthday party, but at which you can still give plenty of thanks that you are still vertical.

It came out that back in the day, one of our friends was a Miss Teenage New York. It’s no wonder since she is so beautiful, but apparently she hated every minute of it, and only did it to fulfill some unmet fantasy of her mother. Which gave me a great idea for a reality show, where they stage a beauty pageant for young girls, but the actual competition is really for the mothers backstage, without them knowing about it. The audience votes and prizes are awarded for things like, “Biggest Pain in the Ass.” “Stagemom Who Looks Most Like Olympia Dukakis.” “Stagemom Who Looks Most Like Michael Dukakis.” “Stagemom Who Seems Most Bipolar.” “Stagemom Who Cries Most For No Reason.” Stagemom Who Smiles Most at Inappropriate Times.” “Stagemom Who Brags Most About Never Spanking Her Kid, But Yet Her Kid is By Far the Brattiest.”

I could go on and on. I even have a title for this: “The Biggest Loser.” What do you think??

By the way, they are starting these pageants way too early. They even have a pageant for babies. The backstage area is rife with hectic banter, the babies frantically involved with hair and makeup. And when I say hair, I mean just the one:

“What should I do with my one hair? Should I go with the ribbon, the headband, or that little ‘flapper’ hat? Should I put it in a bun? And if so, a hot dog bun or a hamburger bun?”

“I should have gotten botox.”

“Does this diaper make me look fat???”

“What should I do for the talent portion? I am thinking of taking a crap standing up.”

The swimsuit competition is a bummer, but they have them anyway because they are popular with creeps, some of whom are major sponsors.

I think eventually they will start the competition even earlier, at the zygote stage of development. Call it the “Miss Conception” pageant. The whole thing will be done through ultrasound photos. The “Miss Photogenic” award shines in this pageant. “Hey- I don’t think that’s even a girl- that is either a penis or an elbow right there.” “Hey what about this for a talent- two heartbeats!”

Even the current Miss America pageant is more of a tribute to winner’s coach and plastic surgeon than to the girl herself. They put her together like a Mr. Potatohead. One surgeon attaches the nose, another the boobs, one pins her ears like a Doberman pinscher, and another sucks the fat out of her ass and puts it into her calves. Sometimes they take out a rib or two so food can’t stick to it, and then somebody attaches a boatload of hair. Someday there will be the first ribless, assless, thighless contestant, which will resemble a sea cucumber, only hot and with unusually white teeth.

They also have a coach that tells her how to answer the questions so that she just looks dumb rather than just stupid. Remember this question and answer?:

Q: A fifth of Americans can't locate the US on a world map. Why do you think this is?

A: I personally believe that US Americans are unable to do so because some people out there in our nation don’t have maps and that I believe our education like such as South Africa and the Iraq, and everywhere, such as, and I believe that they should our education over here in the US, should help the US, or should help South Africa and help the Iraq and the Asian countries so that we will be able to build out our future for us.

That kind of complicated answer has to be coached by a qualified professional; you can’t leave it up to her to make it up by herself. Obviously before the pageant they meticulously went over the countries in the world by using a big puzzle, which she then took into her bedroom to study, the night before showtime. On her way, she tripped over the cat, spilling countries everywhere and asunder. When she put it back together, it resembled the above answer.

And don’t get me started on the Miss Universe Contest which should NOT be so named unless they are going to open up the competition to other planets. If women are from Venus and men are from Mars, let’s see some of them. Let’s see some exposed antennae in a wardrobe malfunction. Let’s see a disqualification of an eight-armed juggling contestant during the talent portion. Let’s find out once and for all if they are just here for their green card.

Incidentally, the Miss America representatives dislike the phrase “beauty pageant,” since the Evening Wear and Swimsuit competitions comprise only 35 percent of the scoring, and also since some of the girls are ugly. The other 65 percent of the scoring is based on the size of their cans. By the way, if you are scoring at home, congratulations.

Provided by website-hit-counters.com site.