C-dog Is Healthy-dog

Or, you know, relatively. I'm still a fat ass; that hasn't changed. I still need to drop some pounds, not drink as much, eat more of these things called "fruits" and "vegetables" (whatever those are), and engage in acts of exercise beyond climbing the steps to my fourth-floor walk up.

But... BUT... according to the doctor and all his myriad tests, I'm a fat ass that's at least reasonably healthy. Truthfully, I'm shocked.

So here's what happened...

I left work and trucked uptown to my new doctor, a fine fellow we'll call "Dr. Zhivago" because he's Russian and a doctor (sadly, he isn't a poet like in the movie; he did hum me a lovely version of "Lara's Theme," however, so that balances it out). I decided to go to a doctor that's somewhat close to my work because, since I'm going to be paying the same amount of money no matter where I go (insurance!), I might as well go to a place that's slightly more posh than the doctor's offices near my home. Think "bombed out medical clinics in Sarajevo" and you're only slightly overstating the conditions of the medical facilities in my neighborhood.

Anyway, so I get there, fill out my paperwork, wait around for a bit while perusing a Sports Illustrated from September (Article: "Will This Be The Miami Dolphin's Year?"), and then am led back through a twisting series of hallways to a very tiny examination room that doesn't look at all like a cleaner version of the torture chamber in Hostel. Not one bit. I'm made to put on a very Logan's Run-ish hospital gown and then, again, I sit and wait. Then, the doctor comes in and...

Wait, actually this is boring... what happens next is just a lot of me talking to a man with a thick Russian accent. Let's skip ahead to the cool part...

Okay, so I they send me into another room that's being manned by a nerd who's surrounded by a bunch of equipment that wouldn't look out of place on a space shuttle. He asks me to lie down, and then pulls out a large tube of goo. At the very sight of this, my butthole slams shut like a book and I sprint across the room so fast, it's like I invented teleportation. I'm informed by the nerd that, no, it's not that kind of exam. I'm actually there to get a heart sonogram.

What? Exactly. I didn't know they did that. But apparently it's not just for pregnant chicks anymore. They rubbed the aforementioned goo all over my chest (it was even less sexy than you're imagining), and then they put that wand thingy over my heart and then... presto... I can see on the screen what's been going on beneath my left tit for all these years. Pretty cool, actually... it's kinda hard to describe... I guess it looked a lot like a throbbing alien that's trying to eat it's way out of my chest, but that's probably not the most accurate assessment of what was going on. At least I hope not. Oh, and when the blood pumped through it, it flashed all red and blue on the screen. It was pretty awesome.

So... yeah... I'm suddenly tired of talking about this. I've related this story a few times now to various people and seriously, yawn. Just know that C-dog's still kicking and probably will be for many-a year to come.