'Scuse Me Gramps Was That Your Hip?

Have you ever noticed that when you talk to your grandparents, parents, or random old people on the street ( does that ever happen?) that their list of ailments is the primary topic of conversation? I apologize for starting this post with a very "Seinfeldian" observation, but at least I didn't ask you what the deal is with airplane food or where the other sock goes while in the dryer. When I would listen to an ongoing litany of some geezer's medical woes I would think to myself "Damn, you handsome,vibrant devil (which is how all my internal monologues begin) if I ever get to the point where my health concerns are all I talk about, I hope someone shoots me." Well, I hope you came to this reading strapped, because after a few paragraphs, you may be tempted to pop a cap, and I wouldn't blame you. I might even welcome the hot lead injection.

I honestly never thought it would come to this. I detailed my health travails last week in what can only be described (by me) as a trilogy nonpareil. I thought I had exhausted that topic and could move on to more pressing social matters. There had to be some right? What about the cyclone hitting Myanmar? That's a tragic story, and one that begs attention, but there's really no humor to be mined there unless you count the repeated use of the word junta. I hadn't heard junta used in a long time, but now I'm doing my best to work it into my daily lexicon. I'm not a big fan of the junta in principle, but it really is a fun word to say. It also adds an air of menace to any rules I try to implement around the house. Instead of being just a strict disciplinarian, I am the head of my own junta. I bought some epaulets and everything. I was also a fan of the term cyclone. "Wife" and I got into quite a debate over what a cyclone actually was, with "Wife" finally asserting, "It's like a tornado". Listen Toots, I saw Twister back in the day, and I never heard Bill Paxton utter the term cyclone. Like all questions in life, this one was answered by a news monkey who explained that a cyclone is the same thing as a hurricane. I'm calling for an end to the distinction. I want all howling storms to be called cyclones and the name hurricane to be left for a tasty cocktail. The junta has spoken. Maybe I could cover the Chinese earthquake? Again, too serious. How about the ongoing Democratic primary and Hillary's almost tragic clinging to imaginary numbers to bolster her wild eyed quest? Maybe another time.

Sit down on the davenport, pry a piece of hard candy from the dish on the doily and rack a shell into the chamber. This week has held more testing on my degenerating carcass. Never one to jump into things half way, I'm embracing my new "Hey let's go to the doctor" mentality with gusto. It worked well so far, since going to the ER saved me the joy of being able to relieve myself in a bag. I hope this week's adventure proves as beneficial. A few months ago, I hurt my knee. I wish I could tell you I twisted it making an open field cut that lead to the game winning touchdown, or that I hyper extended it while running into the street to save a child from getting plastered by a bus, but truth be told, I heard a pop while carrying the vacuum down the stairs. Not sexy I know, but what are you going to do? The initial injury was the impetus for my new medical mindset. My GP told me to do some stretching, wear a brace for a while and everything would be fine. It was. For a short time anyway. Last month I was carrying the vacuum down the stairs again (why do I insist on helping around the house?) when my knee popped again. This time, no amount of bracing or stretching would help and after consulting a neighbor who had undergone knee surgery, I made an appointment with an orthopedic surgeon. That is one popular specialty, because I had to wait a month for an appointment. Check your time line now and see that this happened pre-hospital. Long story short (seriously?!) I had to subject myself to an MRI. How lucky am I to get to expose my lower regions to even more radiation? The tech had to tie my legs together to ensure I wouldn't move and away I went. An MRI is even louder than a CT Scan. The bangs, whirs, and clanks make you think the thing is going to explode like a '72 Gremlin about to throw a rod. Did I mention how loud it is? I was given ear plugs and told to relax. I don't know what to make of this, but I fell sound asleep during the test. Despite being bound like a turkey, shoved in a radioactive tube, and aurally assaulted, I drifted off to dream land. I attribute this to a clear conscious and a relaxed mind, but it could also be a sign that I really need to lay off the Law and Order: SVU reruns at night and get more sleep. I'll get the results next week, but unless surgery is needed I'll try to spare you.

In my defense, this health obsessed mindset is not limited to yours truly. My friends and I have been noticing an increase in our ailment talk over the past few months. We're still at a point where we laugh about it, but you can hear a tone in all our voices that betrays our fears. We're becoming those guys. Yesterday my pal Mike and I spent fifteen minutes discussing the benefits of fiber and it's ability to doctor the consistency of our by-products. The last time those by-products got that much attention I was filling a paper bag with them and trying to figure out how to light it and run away before the crazy old man got to the door. I need to go now. I have to take my pills and shoo some kids off my lawn. Did I mention I might have a touch of the Rheumatiz? Later...Brian