I actually wrote this about 7 years ago, but it remains one of my favorites.
The Stage: Summer, 2003
Kris is our three month old grandson, and I’m his Pepere. He thinks I’m cool and shows it by smiling brightly whenever he sees me. I think he’s way cool. I’m no contender for the Alan Alda award, and maybe I haven’t changed as many diapers as a typical teen-aged girl, but I have changed more than a few, and I’m still mostly secure in my masculinity. My wife, Ginny, on the other hand, is the Tiger Woods of messy diapers and all other grandmotherly endeavors. She’s his Memere and he is pretty sure she controls the daily sunrise – so am I.
In the realm of diapers, there are major changes and minor changes. Changing a wet diaper is minor - no big thing. Even your average bachelor uncle won’t be very challenged by a wet diaper. A poopy diaper, on the other hand, catapults the experience into an entirely different dimension. In this particular case, Kris is only three months old, so the original source of the poop is mother’s milk. The texture of the poop is that of mustard, though somewhat less appetizing. The volume of the poop defies description.
The Saga
On the day in question, Ginny and I were keeping Kris and his sister Katie. One morning I noticed that Kris’s wonderful “baby smell” had been overwhelmed and his grandmother was nowhere in sight. I’m sufficiently liberated to recognize that women are much more skilled in handling certain tasks; alas, Memere was hors de combat at this critical juncture. So, I thought, “no problem – I can do this. I’ve done it many times. Haven’t I?”
First, lay a towel down on the bedspread. (Ginny will really be proud of me for protecting the bedspread with the towel.) Now, get the kid out of this garment. What is this thing called anyway? It’s sort of like the “union suits” my dad wore all winter, minus the flap. Haven’t the people who make these things heard of Velcro? Look, Kris, I’d be squirming too if I was lying in that stuff, but you’re not being very helpful here, and I could get your foot out a lot sooner if you’d quit kicking for just one moment. OK, now that his feet are out, I can just slide the bottom part of the union suit up over the diaper and then I won’t have to get him out of the top end. Smart, Joe – you didn’t just fall off the turnip truck.
Ah ha! The diaper people have discovered Velcro. No, it’s not Velcro - it’s a kind of sticky tape. Who cares, it beats those big safety pins. So, unstick the two tapes and … whoa! That load of mustard poop must have been under pressure – two big squirts shoot out the back like lava from Vesuvius, and one scores a direct hit on a pile of clean clothes while the other overshoots the towel and smears an acre or two of bedspread. (Scratch that thought about Ginny being proud.) OK, I’ve got it – a sacrificial diaper. I’ll slip another diaper under this one, and he can lay on that while I clean him up. Hmm, looks like two or three sacrificial diapers would be safer. Just as I’m slipping in the third sacrificial, Kris enters a maneuver which is a cross between a split-S and a triple Lutz. Oh, man, there’s poop scattered from his feet to his neck. Can’t deal with that yet – besides, I can always hose him off afterward. Let’s just get this messy diaper off before any more poop gets smeared. Oh, oh, where are those wipes? I told Ginny we need to get thirty or forty boxes of those things and keep them all over the house! OK, there’s a box over on the table.
Now, I swear to God I only turned my back for two seconds to get that box, but during that time Kris managed to roll into one of the aforementioned Vesuvian squirts, grab the messy diaper (OK, I probably should have put it down further away from him), throw the messy diaper into the toy box next to the bed, and rub his face with his poop covered hand. Kris, the screaming isn’t helping, buddy. I’ve only got one nerve left, and you’re working right on the end of it. Kris! Point that thing somewhere else, man! This is a really bad time to show Pepere how far you can pee!
Quicksand – Marine Corps training - I’ve got to gain control of this battlefield! Regain fire superiority! Grab a handful of wipes and attack the poop. Wipe anything that’s yellow! (What color is that, anyway?) If it smears, wipe it!
After Action Report
Here we are in the nice big rocker. Kris is happy and cooing and looks great in his new clean union suit. Is that a little smear behind your ear, buddy. No problem. Pepere’s got a box of wipes right here next to us. Now, Kris, it’s time for your first man to man talk. You and I have got to figure out what we’re going to do about the bedroom. Demolition is the most obvious solution, but that will probably be judged impractical by higher management. OK, buddy, here comes your first lesson on interacting with the opposite sex. We’ll explain to Memere that we’re just stupid incompetent guys who can’t function without help from their beautiful, talented, graceful, and ever-so-skilled women ...
Showing posts with label Humor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Humor. Show all posts
23 June 2010
30 May 2010
Humor: Danger Lurks
After extensive anecdotal research (that means shooting the bull with my buddies), I’ve concluded that my Medicare card has been contaminated (probably by an alien force from an alternate dimension – the same conspiracy that produced spiked hair and facial piercings). The card itself looks ok, and I haven’t been able to detect any forensic evidence of actual contamination, but I can find no other explanation for all the weird things that seem to be happening. I can’t prove it, but I believe the card somehow warps the time-space continuum for several feet around me. Ok, that statement sounds highly technical, and maybe scary, but you can expect no less lofty a conclusion from the profound discussions that occur when a bunch of geezers gather over cocktails. I’m pretty sure that my buddies and I are on the right track here.
How else could you explain the following? First, the gravitational field around me has been distorted - gravity is now crooked. A lifetime of experience has convinced me that gravity is supposed to pull straight down. But, as soon as I put that Medicare card in my pocket, everything began to change. For example, ladders became less steady, roofs became steeper, and ice and snow became slipperier. Obviously, I’m not the only one affected. Old guys fall on their ass all the time, and their wives are constantly yelling at them to “stay to hell off that ladder!” Furthermore, while you’re laying on the ground nursing your sore ass, you come to the sad realization that you no longer bounce nearly as well as you used to – proof positive that the damned Medicare card doesn’t only affect gravity, it weakens your body as well.
Worse, the effect increases with time. Before long you’re stumbling, tripping and falling on your ass even though you’re not even in the vicinity of a ladder, roof, or ice. As if that’s not embarrassing enough, the resulting huge ass bruises spread all over, take forever to heal, and morph themselves into colors and shapes that apparently resemble fruit and vegetables – my wife has described the colors of my various bruises as lime, persimmon, peach, and even egg plant, for God’s sake.
And there’s more humiliation to come: doctor’s visits, prescriptions, pills, and countless new ailments. Finally, the ultimate tragedy: instead of the high level discussions that once graced geezer cocktail hour, you find yourselves comparing ailments, prescriptions, injuries, and operations. God help us - the Medicare card – it’s gotta be that damned card!
How else could you explain the following? First, the gravitational field around me has been distorted - gravity is now crooked. A lifetime of experience has convinced me that gravity is supposed to pull straight down. But, as soon as I put that Medicare card in my pocket, everything began to change. For example, ladders became less steady, roofs became steeper, and ice and snow became slipperier. Obviously, I’m not the only one affected. Old guys fall on their ass all the time, and their wives are constantly yelling at them to “stay to hell off that ladder!” Furthermore, while you’re laying on the ground nursing your sore ass, you come to the sad realization that you no longer bounce nearly as well as you used to – proof positive that the damned Medicare card doesn’t only affect gravity, it weakens your body as well.
Worse, the effect increases with time. Before long you’re stumbling, tripping and falling on your ass even though you’re not even in the vicinity of a ladder, roof, or ice. As if that’s not embarrassing enough, the resulting huge ass bruises spread all over, take forever to heal, and morph themselves into colors and shapes that apparently resemble fruit and vegetables – my wife has described the colors of my various bruises as lime, persimmon, peach, and even egg plant, for God’s sake.
And there’s more humiliation to come: doctor’s visits, prescriptions, pills, and countless new ailments. Finally, the ultimate tragedy: instead of the high level discussions that once graced geezer cocktail hour, you find yourselves comparing ailments, prescriptions, injuries, and operations. God help us - the Medicare card – it’s gotta be that damned card!
10 October 2009
A Fish Story
My wife, Ginny, and I are fortunate enough to spend our summers on a beautiful lake in New Hampshire. A while back, Ginny’s college roommate, Barb, came all the way from California with her family for a visit. They arrived late morning, and Barb and Ginny immediately started catching up, Barb’s three grown daughters headed for the beach, and Barb’s folks, who had also joined us, retired for a nap. But Barb’s husband, Tom, is a fisherman. His opening words were, “Hi, Joe. How’s the fishing here?” I set him up with a tackle box, a spinning rod, and a suggestion that the deadwood stump off the point would be a good place to start, and I left on an errand.
When he opened the tackle box, Tom, being a good fisherman, immediately spotted my “Sebago Special” lure. This is a curved piece of stainless steel with three treble hooks, one at the top, one in the middle, and one at the end, and it looks like sweet manna to big fish. In short order, Tom had caught a few nice bass, and he settled in for a great day of fishing.
An hour or so later, Tom hooked a corker of a pickerel. Well, pickerel are great fighters, and Tom was in fisherman Nirvana. When he finally landed the fish, he found that the pickerel was no where near ready to give up. It flipped and flopped into the blueberry bushes, tangled the line, and then flipped back onto the sand, and Tom spotted his chance to pin the monster down with his foot. It was a big pickerel, but no match for Tom’s 180 lbs, and Tom relished his moment of victory. He savored the view of that beautiful fish on the bottom hook, and the Sebago Special and its other two hooks gleaming in the sparkling sunlight.
As Tom reached down to unhook him, the pickerel burst into another thrashing fit, and the center hook snagged Tom’s sneaker. Oh, well, no one ever said fishing was easy, but a veteran fisherman handles such complications with ease. Tom wasn’t a bit flustered. Like a real pro, he grabbed the needle-nosed pliers, planning to unhook his sneaker, being very careful, of course, not to damage that amazing lure. But the pickerel was not done yet. Oh no! As Tom reached down, the powerful beast gave a mighty heave, slipped out from under the sneaker, wriggled his head, and flung the top hook into Tom’s thumb.
What a lure! My Sebago Special had simultaneously snagged a pickerel, an Adidas, and a Californian! The pickerel, of course, was even less happy than Tom with this development and continued to thrash about thus causing the other two hooks to sink even deeper. Tom, ever the intrepid fisherman, immediately recognized the seriousness of his predicament, and began to scream for help. The wives and daughters, meanwhile, were happily immersed in girl talk, and interpreted Tom’s painful supplication as a joyful outburst.
Thankfully, after a few minutes of continuous cries, Barb became suspicious, suspecting that even a really nice fish would not cause an outburst of that duration. By the time she and Ginny went to check on Tom, the situation had deteriorated into a fully developed calamity. The fish was flopping, the hooks were digging, and Tom was doubled over trying to pin down the thrasher. He screamed at Barb, “Cut something!” Well, eventually the girls rescued Tom, the sneaker, and the pickerel (who, by the way, probably still regales his fish friends about the time he caught the big Californian), but my amazing lure remained steadfastly imbedded in Tom’s thumb.
So, Ginny, Barb, and Barb’s dad, Charley, now delightedly awake, set out in Ginny’s jeep to rush Tom’s thumb to the ER. In route, Tom was torn between cursing Ginny for choosing the bumpiest road in North America, and begging her to hurry before he expired from pain. Charley, meanwhile, mildly amused by all the carryings on, passed the time browsing through the Book of Common Prayer he had found in the back seat (every good Episcopalian keeps a BCP close at hand). However, as the chaos around him increased, Charley, ever the sensitive father-in-law, began to ponder whether he should do his part to add to all the fun. Suddenly, Ginny hit a big bump, Tom screamed that she was killing him, and Charley brilliantly spotted the solution to everything. It was right there in front of him in the BCP. Charley seized the moment. He commiserated with Tom, and offered to salve his misery and ease his pending demise. Charley then sonorously began to read passages from the “Prayers at the Time of Death”. As Charley “prayed”, and Tom moaned, Ginny and Barb were laughing so hard they almost ran over two deer, a tractor, and a hay wagon.
It was only in hindsight that Tom fully appreciated the humor of that moment, but he swears that, even in the throes of disaster, he remained in awe of the Sebago Special.
And, that’s a true story, more or less.
When he opened the tackle box, Tom, being a good fisherman, immediately spotted my “Sebago Special” lure. This is a curved piece of stainless steel with three treble hooks, one at the top, one in the middle, and one at the end, and it looks like sweet manna to big fish. In short order, Tom had caught a few nice bass, and he settled in for a great day of fishing.
An hour or so later, Tom hooked a corker of a pickerel. Well, pickerel are great fighters, and Tom was in fisherman Nirvana. When he finally landed the fish, he found that the pickerel was no where near ready to give up. It flipped and flopped into the blueberry bushes, tangled the line, and then flipped back onto the sand, and Tom spotted his chance to pin the monster down with his foot. It was a big pickerel, but no match for Tom’s 180 lbs, and Tom relished his moment of victory. He savored the view of that beautiful fish on the bottom hook, and the Sebago Special and its other two hooks gleaming in the sparkling sunlight.
As Tom reached down to unhook him, the pickerel burst into another thrashing fit, and the center hook snagged Tom’s sneaker. Oh, well, no one ever said fishing was easy, but a veteran fisherman handles such complications with ease. Tom wasn’t a bit flustered. Like a real pro, he grabbed the needle-nosed pliers, planning to unhook his sneaker, being very careful, of course, not to damage that amazing lure. But the pickerel was not done yet. Oh no! As Tom reached down, the powerful beast gave a mighty heave, slipped out from under the sneaker, wriggled his head, and flung the top hook into Tom’s thumb.
What a lure! My Sebago Special had simultaneously snagged a pickerel, an Adidas, and a Californian! The pickerel, of course, was even less happy than Tom with this development and continued to thrash about thus causing the other two hooks to sink even deeper. Tom, ever the intrepid fisherman, immediately recognized the seriousness of his predicament, and began to scream for help. The wives and daughters, meanwhile, were happily immersed in girl talk, and interpreted Tom’s painful supplication as a joyful outburst.
Thankfully, after a few minutes of continuous cries, Barb became suspicious, suspecting that even a really nice fish would not cause an outburst of that duration. By the time she and Ginny went to check on Tom, the situation had deteriorated into a fully developed calamity. The fish was flopping, the hooks were digging, and Tom was doubled over trying to pin down the thrasher. He screamed at Barb, “Cut something!” Well, eventually the girls rescued Tom, the sneaker, and the pickerel (who, by the way, probably still regales his fish friends about the time he caught the big Californian), but my amazing lure remained steadfastly imbedded in Tom’s thumb.
So, Ginny, Barb, and Barb’s dad, Charley, now delightedly awake, set out in Ginny’s jeep to rush Tom’s thumb to the ER. In route, Tom was torn between cursing Ginny for choosing the bumpiest road in North America, and begging her to hurry before he expired from pain. Charley, meanwhile, mildly amused by all the carryings on, passed the time browsing through the Book of Common Prayer he had found in the back seat (every good Episcopalian keeps a BCP close at hand). However, as the chaos around him increased, Charley, ever the sensitive father-in-law, began to ponder whether he should do his part to add to all the fun. Suddenly, Ginny hit a big bump, Tom screamed that she was killing him, and Charley brilliantly spotted the solution to everything. It was right there in front of him in the BCP. Charley seized the moment. He commiserated with Tom, and offered to salve his misery and ease his pending demise. Charley then sonorously began to read passages from the “Prayers at the Time of Death”. As Charley “prayed”, and Tom moaned, Ginny and Barb were laughing so hard they almost ran over two deer, a tractor, and a hay wagon.
It was only in hindsight that Tom fully appreciated the humor of that moment, but he swears that, even in the throes of disaster, he remained in awe of the Sebago Special.
And, that’s a true story, more or less.
28 September 2009
About the "Humor" Blogs
I know that not all of you agree that my humor is in fact humorous. I get it. On the other hand,lots of folks actually do think it's funny, and they like to see it on the blog.
So, once a week or so, I'll post a humorous piece - some of them new, some of them recycled. The next piece, on "natural" gas, was a favorite when I distributed it last Spring.
By the way, if you like any particular essay, you can find this blog's essays on the same topic simply by clicking on the word or phrase following "Labels" at the bottom of the essay. For example, if you click on "Humor" at the bottom of this note, all of the humorous essays will pop up.
So, once a week or so, I'll post a humorous piece - some of them new, some of them recycled. The next piece, on "natural" gas, was a favorite when I distributed it last Spring.
By the way, if you like any particular essay, you can find this blog's essays on the same topic simply by clicking on the word or phrase following "Labels" at the bottom of the essay. For example, if you click on "Humor" at the bottom of this note, all of the humorous essays will pop up.
Old Men and the Wonders of "Natural" Gas
Ever heard the phrase, “old and farty”? It’s kind of a cliché, maybe even a stereotype. Ok, I know we’re not supposed to stereotype people, but it seems to me that stereotypes become stereotypes for a reason – don’t they? In any case, as I get older, I definitely get gassier, and I’ve got plenty of Medicare-card-carrying friends in the same boat.
So, being a good engineer (I’m old, not feeble), I determined to make the best of the situation. I know the following is a bit of a smelly proposition that could get blown out of proportion, but hear me out.
All mammals are flatulent, but old men seem to be especially afflicted (this may in some strange way be related to the dietary preferences of old men). The primary gas in mammalian flatulence is methane, which, by the way, is odorless and tasteless (it’s those nasty trace gases like hydrogen sulfide that offend), and methane is a wonderful source of energy. It burns cleanly and is an efficient fuel. It can be used directly in vehicles or it can be used to make electricity.
So, isn’t it obvious? Old men are our greatest untapped natural resource!
All we need to tap this resource are local and regional gas collection centers. Many of the details have to be worked out, but some of the salient elements of these centers would be:
• an abundant supply of beer, beans and Mexican food, nicely complimented with an onion soup appetizer;
• a comfortable setting (Lazy-Boy recliners come to mind) to facilitate high level discussions of sports, the way things used to be, war stories, and the unfathomable complexity of feminine wiles and attributes;
• large TVs and a complete set of John Wayne movies – high level discussions can be debilitating and require periodic down time; and
• a built-in central vacuum system strategically located in the seats of the recliners.
Being the selfless patriots that we are, I predict that most of us old men would agree to provide this service to our fellow man in exchange for a nominal honorarium, say a wide screen LCD with a premium subscription to Direct TV.
Think of the benefits!
• To national security: no more dependence on foreign oil, and a permanent supply of low cost energy.
• To the economy: the proceeds from the sale of the methane could be used to bail out Social Security and Medicare and return them to solvency.
• To male senior citizens: enhanced self esteem resulting from the productive use of a heretofore constant source of criticism.
• To spouses of male senior citizens: what can I say, the benefits are inestimable!
So, being a good engineer (I’m old, not feeble), I determined to make the best of the situation. I know the following is a bit of a smelly proposition that could get blown out of proportion, but hear me out.
All mammals are flatulent, but old men seem to be especially afflicted (this may in some strange way be related to the dietary preferences of old men). The primary gas in mammalian flatulence is methane, which, by the way, is odorless and tasteless (it’s those nasty trace gases like hydrogen sulfide that offend), and methane is a wonderful source of energy. It burns cleanly and is an efficient fuel. It can be used directly in vehicles or it can be used to make electricity.
So, isn’t it obvious? Old men are our greatest untapped natural resource!
All we need to tap this resource are local and regional gas collection centers. Many of the details have to be worked out, but some of the salient elements of these centers would be:
• an abundant supply of beer, beans and Mexican food, nicely complimented with an onion soup appetizer;
• a comfortable setting (Lazy-Boy recliners come to mind) to facilitate high level discussions of sports, the way things used to be, war stories, and the unfathomable complexity of feminine wiles and attributes;
• large TVs and a complete set of John Wayne movies – high level discussions can be debilitating and require periodic down time; and
• a built-in central vacuum system strategically located in the seats of the recliners.
Being the selfless patriots that we are, I predict that most of us old men would agree to provide this service to our fellow man in exchange for a nominal honorarium, say a wide screen LCD with a premium subscription to Direct TV.
Think of the benefits!
• To national security: no more dependence on foreign oil, and a permanent supply of low cost energy.
• To the economy: the proceeds from the sale of the methane could be used to bail out Social Security and Medicare and return them to solvency.
• To male senior citizens: enhanced self esteem resulting from the productive use of a heretofore constant source of criticism.
• To spouses of male senior citizens: what can I say, the benefits are inestimable!
23 September 2009
Humor: Drooping and Sagging
The scariest movie I ever saw was, “The Attack of the Body Snatchers”. Nasty aliens planted giant seed pods all over the place and inside each pod grew a human body that was an exact replica of a real person. Once the pod body was fully grown, it took over the person it duplicated. Ok, maybe you don’t think it’s all that scary, but it still gives me the jitters.
And, just like in the movies, my worst nightmare has come true. The other day I was having trouble with the ear pieces on my glasses (these are called the “temples”, by the way – I looked it up). No matter how carefully I straightened them, my glasses were crooked – tipped to the right. Finally, I went into the bathroom to see if I was imagining the crookedness. I looked in the mirror and there was the root cause, plain as day. My right ear was quite a bit lower than my left ear.
Now, that ear has been on my head for 65 years, on the right, behind my sideburn, and beneath my hair. I’m pretty sure I would have noticed by now if it had always been out of place. I’m positive it has consistently been situated at the same elevation as my left ear. Yet, there it was, a full half inch low. There can only be one explanation: the pod body that replaced me was slightly defective.
In the movie, the replacement pod people were kind of numb and robotic, but my mind seems not to have been affected. I still have the same keen razor-sharp mind that remembers every detail except why to hell I came into this room. Just goes to show you that Hollywood doesn’t always get it right.
My wife doesn’t buy the pod thing. She thinks my ear is just sagging a little faster than the rest of my body, and the other ear will likely soon catch up. Now, I find that thought more than a little disconcerting. If things don’t droop symmetrically, all sorts of problems could develop: shirts with one long and one short sleeve; pants with one high water leg and the other dragging on the floor; bow legs that look like a figure 8; eyebrows that look like one caterpillar is farther up the tree; and, a potbelly that looks like a dumbbell with too many weights on one side. My God, what if the droops were on random sides. I’ll end up looking like Disney’s Goofy (or is it Pluto - I always get those characters mixed up).
This is all too much to contemplate. I’m going with the pod thing. Now that I think about it, this new pod body never smoked or drank or otherwise abused itself. I’ve got a whole new body to dissipate, and now I’m experienced. I’ll get it done in no time.
And, just like in the movies, my worst nightmare has come true. The other day I was having trouble with the ear pieces on my glasses (these are called the “temples”, by the way – I looked it up). No matter how carefully I straightened them, my glasses were crooked – tipped to the right. Finally, I went into the bathroom to see if I was imagining the crookedness. I looked in the mirror and there was the root cause, plain as day. My right ear was quite a bit lower than my left ear.
Now, that ear has been on my head for 65 years, on the right, behind my sideburn, and beneath my hair. I’m pretty sure I would have noticed by now if it had always been out of place. I’m positive it has consistently been situated at the same elevation as my left ear. Yet, there it was, a full half inch low. There can only be one explanation: the pod body that replaced me was slightly defective.
In the movie, the replacement pod people were kind of numb and robotic, but my mind seems not to have been affected. I still have the same keen razor-sharp mind that remembers every detail except why to hell I came into this room. Just goes to show you that Hollywood doesn’t always get it right.
My wife doesn’t buy the pod thing. She thinks my ear is just sagging a little faster than the rest of my body, and the other ear will likely soon catch up. Now, I find that thought more than a little disconcerting. If things don’t droop symmetrically, all sorts of problems could develop: shirts with one long and one short sleeve; pants with one high water leg and the other dragging on the floor; bow legs that look like a figure 8; eyebrows that look like one caterpillar is farther up the tree; and, a potbelly that looks like a dumbbell with too many weights on one side. My God, what if the droops were on random sides. I’ll end up looking like Disney’s Goofy (or is it Pluto - I always get those characters mixed up).
This is all too much to contemplate. I’m going with the pod thing. Now that I think about it, this new pod body never smoked or drank or otherwise abused itself. I’ve got a whole new body to dissipate, and now I’m experienced. I’ll get it done in no time.
08 September 2009
Humor: Annual Physicals
16 October 2008
I think we can all agree that, for many years now, the cost of health care has been increasing at a rate many times higher than the CPI; and, the out of control increase in the cost of heath care is a systemic problem that affects every sector of our society.
My dedicated, if not extensive, research has determined the following major reasons health care costs keep increasing so fast: 1) engineers keep inventing ever more effective and expensive medical testing equipment; 2) plaintiff’s lawyers are deeply and personally committed to never letting a potential malpractice lawsuit go un-filed; 3) doctors keep ordering expensive medical equipment tests in order to protect themselves from malpractice lawsuits; and, 4) annual physicals.
Since we have plenty of politicians willing to address the first three reasons, I will limit my comments to annual physicals. The scientific and statistical bases for the following comments are a little suspect, since the evidence is admittedly anecdotal and based on a pretty small population: me. In other words, the science and statistics are generally comparable to the widely proclaimed charges that global warming, teen pregnancies, reality TV, and Tom Brady’s ACL injury, are all caused by George Bush.
Ok, here’s my case. I recently went to see my family doctor for a simple annual physical. I walked in as a perfectly healthy man in his mid-sixties. I hobbled out as a decrepit old man with several new ailments, two new prescriptions, and appointments with no less than five specialists. A month later, I have been X-Ray’ed, MRI’ed, CT’ed, Edoscopy’ed, had enough blood drawn to save a battalion of wounded Marines, and I’ve had one surgery and I’m scheduled for another. The surgeries may be quite minor, but they more than make up for their lack of complexity by being very expensive. All told, these office visits, medical procedures, tests, and surgeries cost approximately 2.73 gazillion dollars – all because I had an annual physical. I rest my case.
All of the pain, inconvenience and expenditures that have been visited upon me the past several weeks beg the obvious question, “Is it all worth it?” Sure it is. I have been assured that, provided I keep having a few hundred or so procedures each week, I can expect to live for up to 20 years. Otherwise, I can expect to die within two decades.
If I ever completely recover from this bout of “annual physicalitis”, I figure it will have robbed me of months of blissful unawareness, most of my dignity, and hundreds of zillions of dollars in co-pays alone. My fellow dotagers, it’s time to stand up to this terrible insult to the chronologically challenged! Fight the good fight, rise up and let the world know that we are united on this issue. If we must be subjected to annual victimization, then we must also be spared the humiliation of having to do it in front of our friends and neighbors. Petition medicare, doctors, insurance companies, and our families, that, if we must have an annual physical, then have the decency to conduct it on an Annual Physical Cruise (the Cruise Lines will no doubt jump at the chance to inaugurate “Annual Physical” cruises). The highlight of Annual Physical Cruises will be a certification that we will receive the finest care by highly trained caregivers, bartenders, waiters, and masseuses, and we will be guaranteed excellent physical evaluations in a comforting and supportive environment. Best of all, this superb medical care can no doubt be delivered by the Cruise Lines at a fraction of the present cost!
* * *
I think we can all agree that, for many years now, the cost of health care has been increasing at a rate many times higher than the CPI; and, the out of control increase in the cost of heath care is a systemic problem that affects every sector of our society.
My dedicated, if not extensive, research has determined the following major reasons health care costs keep increasing so fast: 1) engineers keep inventing ever more effective and expensive medical testing equipment; 2) plaintiff’s lawyers are deeply and personally committed to never letting a potential malpractice lawsuit go un-filed; 3) doctors keep ordering expensive medical equipment tests in order to protect themselves from malpractice lawsuits; and, 4) annual physicals.
Since we have plenty of politicians willing to address the first three reasons, I will limit my comments to annual physicals. The scientific and statistical bases for the following comments are a little suspect, since the evidence is admittedly anecdotal and based on a pretty small population: me. In other words, the science and statistics are generally comparable to the widely proclaimed charges that global warming, teen pregnancies, reality TV, and Tom Brady’s ACL injury, are all caused by George Bush.
Ok, here’s my case. I recently went to see my family doctor for a simple annual physical. I walked in as a perfectly healthy man in his mid-sixties. I hobbled out as a decrepit old man with several new ailments, two new prescriptions, and appointments with no less than five specialists. A month later, I have been X-Ray’ed, MRI’ed, CT’ed, Edoscopy’ed, had enough blood drawn to save a battalion of wounded Marines, and I’ve had one surgery and I’m scheduled for another. The surgeries may be quite minor, but they more than make up for their lack of complexity by being very expensive. All told, these office visits, medical procedures, tests, and surgeries cost approximately 2.73 gazillion dollars – all because I had an annual physical. I rest my case.
All of the pain, inconvenience and expenditures that have been visited upon me the past several weeks beg the obvious question, “Is it all worth it?” Sure it is. I have been assured that, provided I keep having a few hundred or so procedures each week, I can expect to live for up to 20 years. Otherwise, I can expect to die within two decades.
If I ever completely recover from this bout of “annual physicalitis”, I figure it will have robbed me of months of blissful unawareness, most of my dignity, and hundreds of zillions of dollars in co-pays alone. My fellow dotagers, it’s time to stand up to this terrible insult to the chronologically challenged! Fight the good fight, rise up and let the world know that we are united on this issue. If we must be subjected to annual victimization, then we must also be spared the humiliation of having to do it in front of our friends and neighbors. Petition medicare, doctors, insurance companies, and our families, that, if we must have an annual physical, then have the decency to conduct it on an Annual Physical Cruise (the Cruise Lines will no doubt jump at the chance to inaugurate “Annual Physical” cruises). The highlight of Annual Physical Cruises will be a certification that we will receive the finest care by highly trained caregivers, bartenders, waiters, and masseuses, and we will be guaranteed excellent physical evaluations in a comforting and supportive environment. Best of all, this superb medical care can no doubt be delivered by the Cruise Lines at a fraction of the present cost!
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