I missed most of Tuesday’s Obamarama. A part of my day was getting ready for my semi-regular physical exam (I could not find a study guide). Another part of my day was the actual exam. Then there was my chasing to the pharmacy to fill the prescriptions so I can take all of the damn pills Dr. Doom says that I need in order to delay the graveyard dance.
Okay, so what if I am an acutely depressed aging fatman with high blood pressure and a taste for cigars, booze, and rich food? Is that really so wrong? I am not overweight. My skeleton is insufficient for my body mass. Obama’s health reform needs to find some medical miracle to stretch my bones so I am 6’6’’ tall instead of 5’8’’ and then everything is proportional.
Little bastard doctor says that I am fat. Hey Doc! You are ugly and you need to go back to med school! You are supposed to use a finger to do a digital rectal exam, not bury your arm all the way to your elbow. My blood pressure was normal BEFORE you did that. Furthermore, the next time you leave me standing buck-naked in an examining room, mark the door “occupied” so the nurse doesn’t put a little old Asian lady into hysterics by guiding her into the wrong room. “AIEEEEEEEE! JABBA! JABBA!”
Photo above is my Great Great Grandfather, Civil War Veteran, Company C, First Kentucky Cavalry, U.S.
Mom and Dad had antecedents on both sides of that bloody conflict. Counties were split, towns were split, and families were split. It was never as simple as being the north versus the south.
The Preacherman says, "My advice to you is to get yourself a gun and learn how to shoot." The Gunman says, "My advice to you is to get yourself a Bible and learn how to pray."
TRIGGER WARNING: Guns have triggers.
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