eat baby

In which our hero determines whom he can gross out

So, I decided to get a checkup recently. It's been awhile and I'm getting older, if not very much wiser, after all. Naturally, part of that includes blood labs.

They require that you fast for 12 hours before getting the blood work done so everybody in the clinic was grouchy and rumbly in the tumbly. They should have had armed guards except for the fact that every patient but me was an octogenarian, or smoked and drank enough to look like one.

"Take a number and have a seat" the sign said, so I found the little red number producing thingy and ripped off a tag. Number 93,172. I looked at the number display on the wall. Number 6. I looked around for a seat. Full of grizzled old starving people. One of those days.

I went out into the hall where I met Wilford Brimley's twin brother, who was wearing sky blue shorts and tan leather sandals. His white walrus mustache waved hello.

I parked myself on a sofa and waited through the interminable number roll-call, my little paper tag becoming damp and crumpled in my sweaty palm. I still get a little nervous in clinics and doctor's offices despite spending a great deal of time in them, lately, as part of my work.

"What kind of number are you?" Wilford Brimley's twin brother asked me. I told him and he asked, "Can you hear them?" I nodded affirmatively.

Finally, my winning digits were called and I handed over my medical card. I was then sent back into exile to wait for my name to be broadcasted from the BLOOD DRAWING ROOM (Dramatic music)! Well, that's what the huge black and white placard on the wall, where nobody could possibly miss it, said. The large clinic building had maybe two tiny arrows pointing the direction to the lab but once you got there they had gigantic street signs naming the zones -- Lab Lane, Imaging Lane. Very cutesy. That's Kaiser Permanente and that's how they roll.

My name called, I stepped into the BLOOD DRAWING ROOM. I saw that I had drawn the youngest phhllphph... flea-lobotomist.... lab tech of all. I sat down in the big barber chair that they use now and the phlphlphl... phil rizzuto... lab tech rolled her little table of torture implements up and slapped my right arm down. She pulled out about a number 2 gauge needle, took a running start, and fired off the first salvo.

When I was a young mollusk you couldn't get pointed metal objects within two miles of my veins and arteries but since that time I've been in the service and there you couldn't even get paid without getting inoculated first; and they used those big air guns back then, too. KA-CHUNK! AAAIIIEEE!! Point being, a little needle poke is nothing to me now.

My very young plplpl... philodendron... lab tech was not having much luck on her first try. Even I, with no experience, could see that she had gone in at too steep an angle. She eventually saw it, too, and drew the needle out a bit -- reeeee -- and then back in again at a shallower angle -- raaaaw. Still no oil, so back out and back in again at another angle. Then she started see-sawing. It was only a matter of time before she struck my funny bone or pinned my arm to my chest.

God damn, Sticky McPinhead! You're not hemming a dress! Is this lab your own personal Pequod?! Why don't you just go all the way and use my bones for corset stays! Use that great sonar dome I call a forehead for lamp oil! Scrimshaw all my teeth! Avast!

"Let's try a smallahrr needuhl." said my pppp.... philatelist... lab tech in a nasaly-guttural valley girl accent from the back of her throat. She taped a cotton ball to my right arm, snatched up my left arm, pulled out the little baby nerf needle with attached thin plastic tubing and started round two.

This time the phhhhh... phagocyte... lab tech hit pay dirt and something looking more like balsamic vinegar than blood started slowly filling the test tubes. Mission accomplished, on went another taped cotton ball. A matched set. Two for one sale. I hate the sticky surgical tape much more than the needles. That's why I'll never get a Brazilian.

"Sorry about that." said my barely legal phuphuphu... philander... lab tech.

"No problem." I replied. "Practice makes perfect."
  • Current Mood: pin cushion-y
I always knew you had balsamic vinegar in your veins -- pungent, powerful, but complex and tasty.
Brilliant use of the phhh... words. While I inwardly weep for your pain, outwardly I'm giggling loudly. You have once again made me smile after a long day!
While that sounds delightful, it would probably wreck my diamond-encrusted grill. I'd hate for the word "PIMP" to be difficult to read when I grin.
My very young plplpl... philodendron... lab tech was not having much luck on her first try. Even I, with no experience, could see that she had gone in at too steep an angle. She eventually saw it, too, and drew the needle out a bit -- reeeee -- and then back in again at a shallower angle -- raaaaw.

Ouch! Exactly why I don't go in for check ups. N