Getting It in the "End"

A visit to the doctor’s office is usually something most of us dread. Let’s face it, other than visiting the doctor for a yearly physical, most of us only see him when something’s wrong with our health, and usually that visit entails a lot of prodding, poking, bloodletting, and many other very uncomfortable things. It’s true. It happened to me a while back.

Now, I won’t bore you with the details of the ailment that sent me seeking a doctor’s advice. I will tell you this much, in order to be sure that certain maladies weren’t the culprit of my illness, the doctor needed a good view of my insides. To do this he had to use a scope, a scope that was not inserted down my throat. No, it went somewhere else, and in the immortal words of Forrest Gump (a true American if ever there was), “That’s all I have to say about thaaaaat.”

To be sure, the preparation for scoping one’s innards is worse than the procedure itself. You see, the first thing you’re instructed to do, starting twenty-four hours before the procedure takes place, is to stop eating solids, only clear liquids can go into your body. Do you know what that means? It means for a whole day your main course at meal times is basically BOUILLON SOUP. It’s flavored water for Pete’s sake! Don’t get me wrong, bouillon soup has its place in the culinary world. But as a staple to one’s diet for a whole day, well, that’s just flat out abuse. I mean, by the end of a work day, a work day during which you have not eaten any solid food, you’re so starved and fatigued you can barely make it through the front door of your house without collapsing. Since you can't eat and your strength is all but gone, you stumble to the sofa, clumsily grab the remote control to your T.V., and turn that succor on. Huge mistake!

Do you know how many commercials there are on T.V. that has something to do with food? I swear, three out of every five commercials will remind you of just how hungry you are.

The second bit of torture the doctor wants you to inflict upon yourself is worse than the starvation diet of beef and chicken flavored water. Let me tell you, it’s the most hideous, awful thing known to man. I’d rather have all my teeth pulled at once without anesthetic than go through it again. You see, in order for the doc to clearly see your insides through the scope your insides must be empty.
At two P.M., the day before the scope, you are required to drink two ounces of castor oil. If you've never had to drink castor oil consider yourself blessed. But if you want to know what it's like; well, gagging, coughing, choking, and dry heaving are things with which you become intimately acquainted.

Now, struggling to drink and keep the castor oil down is just the beginning of your problems. You see, once ingested, that putrid stuff turns you into a castor oil time bomb, and you have no idea when you will explode. Will you detonate before you leave work? Will you detonate while driving home from work, stuck in traffic? Or will you detonate after you arrive home, where you can promptly and privately take care of the situation? It’s literally a crap shoot, pun intended.

But the most aggravating thing of this whole ordeal isn't the starvation. It isn't choking down castor oil; it's not even turning one’s self into a castor oil time bomb. No, the most aggravating thing about this whole scenario is that you get to pay the doctor hundreds of dollars for the pleasure of being tortured.

So, if sharing this experience has educated you to the horrors of having your innards looked at then I consider my job well done, and just think, it was painless and it didn’t cost you a dime.

Sadomasochism? Naw, It's Just Fishing Season

The warm weather is upon us. The sky seems bluer, and the sun is out longer. Trees are in bloom, and birds, high in their nests sing their sweet melodies, beckoning us to come out and play. For many, these signal the coming of fishing season!

Some of us don't understand people who can't see the joy of fishing. There's nothing in this world that can be compared to drawing blood from a finger pricked with a fish hook (I've done this many a time and found that the best part of pricking one's finger with a fish hook is when the pain subsides and the blood stops oozing). And what's better than the feel of a nice, long wiggly night crawler between your fingers as you thread onto a hook?

Stream fishing for trout, that's the best. Getting up long before the sun opens its eyes, stumbling into your clothes with one eye shut--the other half open--and stuffing your mouth full of something grabbed blindly from the fridge (realizing too late what you grabbed was fish bait) , is fun beyond description.

There's no choice about getting up before dawn either; that's when the fish are biting. The middle of the day is no good--fish don't eat lunch. But what the heck, it's pure delight romping through the woods, stumbling over logs and boulders in the dark. Don't worry about getting poked in the eye by an unseen branch--you were born with a spare.

If the twelve cups of hot black coffee you've had for breakfast haven't awakened you by the time you step into that ice-cold stream, the leak in your trusty old hip boots will.

There's no need to worry about the necessities of life out in the wild. Everything you need is within reach. Need to wash your hands? Just dip them in the stream and dry them with the surrounding foliage. Stinging nettle is a great paper substitute, especially if Mother Nature pays you a visit. It's sure to put a little bounce in your step (by the way, I really don't recommend stinging nettle for wiping your derriere. Trust me; it's not a pleasant experience)
.
If the fish aren't biting and you need a little diversion, just forget about those branches overhead and go for a nice, high, long cast--then you can spend the next two hours untangling your line from the trees.

It's never lonely fishing a stream. There are animals to keep you company. Speaking from personal experience, being chased by a bull moose is more thrilling than a day at Disney World. It also provides a great excuse as to why you've returned to camp empty-handed.

What a rush you get when you hear the beautiful sound of rattles (I'm talking rattle snake here folks) coming right from where you just placed your foot--it's good for the body to break out in a cold sweat now and then.

There are things to ponder while you're busy catching nothing. Things like, what made that rustling noise in the bushes behind you? Of course, all of the horror stories you've ever read about bear attacks go flashing through your head to help intensify the moment. What an adventure!

And there's that wonderful fisherman's smell that everybody loves. It's such a romantic aroma. It should be bottled and sold--"Essence of Dead Fish"--works for me.
Another great thing about fishing is it can be done rain or shine. Why, many people swear to the fact that some of their best fishing has been in the rain. I'm sure they mumble that to themselves, every time they hobble back to camp drenched, numb, and empty-handed.

Finally, all you need to join this fun is, for a slight fee, the purchase of a license...and bait...and sinkers... and floats… and hooks… and…

Personalized, Friendly Service, Where Art Thou?

Personalized, friendly service, that's what I like. But it seems society decided personalized, friendly service should go the way of other social dinosaurs that made America great: drive-in-movies, car-hops, "'til death do us part,"' prank phone calls, and real country music, just to name a few. Let me give you some of examples of what I'm talking about.

My younger brother went into a certain hardware store near his home in Daytona Beach, Florida. He walked in and noticed that the only other living human being in the store was the sales clerk who, with nothing else to do, was standing behind the cash register, twiddling his thumbs.

Within view of the clerk, younger brother began scanning a wall of items in search of a particular device, a device which he failed to find. The clerk observed the trouble my brother was having with his search but made no effort to help him. Younger brother stood by the wall and waited for assistance. He waited... and waited... and waited. Finally, younger brother went over to the clerk, looked the guy in the eyes and said, "Do you think you could help me?"

The clerk responded, "Do you have a number?"

On another wall, by the front door of the store, was one of those digital readout do-hickies with pull-out paper stubs containing numbers on them. I'm sure you know the drill. A customer walks over and pulls the paper stub out of the dohicky, and when that particular number is lighted on the readout screen it's that customer's turn to be served.

Now, normally, this is a procedure used by very busy retail outlets to insure that people are served in the order they enter the store, preventing people from butting in line just like they did in the cafeteria at school when they were younger. That in itself is a sad commentary on society. But let's not digress.

Younger brother, with sarcastically over-exaggerated movements, looked left, then right. He then looked at the clerk and said, "There's nobody in here but you and me."

"Sorry," replied the clerk, "I can't help you unless you have a number. "

Younger brother walked over to the ticket machine, pulled the paper stub out, and the digital readout on the machine lighted up the same number that was on his ticket.

The clerk glanced at the machine and hollered, "Number 97, may I help you?!"

Another fine example of the lack of friendly, personalized service in society happened sometime back. And it's an example most people can relate to.

A few years ago, I ran up a hefty medical debt. I called one of the medical facilities that treated me to see about working out monthly payment arrangements. What happened next would have made Mother Teresa swear.

I dialed the medical facility's main office number. A pleasant, albeit recorded, female voice came on the line and told me if I was using a touch-tone phone push one, so I did. The same pleasant voice then said if I spoke English to push the number nine button.

After pushing the number nine button, the pleasant voice came on again and told me that if I was seeking information concerning bla, bla, bla, I should push number one. But if I was seeking information about my bill I should push the number two button. I pushed number two.

I got the same pleasant female voice. This time she told me I had three options. For information concerning bla, bla, bla, I was to push number one. For information concerning the collection of my bill I should push number two. Number three was for "other" and heaven only knows where that would've led me. Once more, I pushed the number two button.

Again, the lady with the pleasant voice came on the line. But by then, I didn't care if the woman with the pleasant voice was the sweetest old lady in the universe. I desperately wanted to reach through the phone, wrap my frustrated hands around her neck, and strangle her! Figuratively speaking of course.

Anyway, she told me that if my last name started with a letter between A through E I was to push the number one button. I did. A phone on the other end of the line rang, several times actually. Finally, it was picked up and I heard, "Hi, this is _____. I'm not at my desk at the moment, but if you'll leave your name and number I'll call you just as soon as I can." ARRRRGGGH!

Oh, how I long for the good ole days of personalized, friendly service. But I'm doing my part to resurrect those good qualities. Just phone me and see if I don't sound amicable and happy on my voice mail. And if you leave your name and phone number, I might actually return your call. Hey, it's the least I can do to improve the quality of service in society.

Stupid Is As Stupid...Well, You Get the Idea

I'm insulted. Everyone should be insulted. Judging from what I've observed around me, it's obvious that we consumers are thought of as a fairly stupid group of people.

Take frozen orange juice. How does frozen orange juice prove my point? The next time you're at the supermarket (or maybe since we're all so "dumb" it should be called the stupidmarket) pick up a can of the stuff and read the directions.

First of all, how difficult can making a pitcher of orange juice be? It pretty simple: drop the frozen lump of stuff into a pitcher, add as much or as little water as you like, stir, and shazam! You got orange juice.

But evidently, the people at the orange juice firm not only think we're so dumb that we need instructions on how to use their product, but they further insult our intelligence by making sure the directions on the can tell us to use COLD water. I don't know, maybe some guy one day said to his wife, "Honey, I think I'll make hot orange juice this morning."

Here's something else for you to think about. You know those little gun-like fire starters, the ones where you pull a trigger and the thing produces a flame? My brother bought one of those (he bought it to light scented candles in the bathroom and in the words of that great American Forrest Gump, "That's all I got to say about thaaaaat.").

Anyway, one day I was reading the warning on this little gizmo. It says, "Do Not Use Near Open Flame." It's a lighter for crying out loud! That's what it does. It creates an open flame! How the heck am I to use this thing when it creates the very condition in which I'm warned not use it? Besides, if I'm already near an open flame I'd have no need for the thing anyway.

Believe it or not, Barbasol Shaving Cream has a similar warning on it. But, before we go there get a load of the Shaving Tips printed on the can. It says, and I quote, "Use Gentle Strokes With A SHARP Blade." I thought that was kind of a given, didn't you? I mean, if you're using a straight-edge razor, especially one that contains four or five sharp blades, it would be a good idea not to use rough, hard strokes. Although, I do remember the morning I actually saw a guy shaving with a straight-edge razor while driving his car. Hit one chuck hole while doing that . . . it's over. But I digress.

So, back to the warning on this can of shaving cream. Under WARNING is printed, "Do Not Heat To Warm Foam." This just begs the question, is there really a man out there who one day said to himself, "I think I'll sit in the fireplace to shave this morning?"

Down here in the Sunshine State, most everybody uses those windshield shade contraptions in their cars, especially during the summer. I had one in my old truck (I love old trucks) that had an interesting warning on the back of it. Now, as you know, these things are to be placed in the windshield of your automobile to help keep the inside of your car from getting unbearably hot while parked in the sun. As I got into my truck one day and reached to pull the shade out of the windshield, I noticed a warning on the back of it. It read, bet you know where I'm going with this, "Remove From Windshield Before Driving." Does this really deserve a comment? Yeah, it does. Do you mean to tell me that one day some guy said to his passenger, "Hey, I have a fun idea, let's leave the shade in the windshield and see how far we get before hitting somebody?"

Personally, one of my favorite warnings is a T.V. commercial for a product that helps insomniacs. At the end of the commercial the narrator rattles off all the possible side-affects of this product, which only serves to give you more things to worry over, adding to your inability to sleep. Near the end of his little speech, the narrator says that until you know just how you will be affected by this medication, you shouldn't drive while taking it. You think?!

So, let me get this straight. A doctor prescribes this medication for someone because he can't sleep. Then after taking it, as he's dozing off, he suddenly remembers he forgot to stop and pick up bacon and eggs on his way home from the office and decides to make a grocery run? Must be the same guy who wanted to see how far he'd get driving with the sun shade in his windshield.

Sometimes, it's not the warnings or instructions on a product that insults my intelligence. Sometimes it's the efforts made by manufacturers to "comfort me," make me feel good, and safe, protected by using their product.

For instance, there's an aerosol company that claims its product kills 99.9% of all germs in your bathroom. 99.9%. That's pretty darn good, ought to make us feel safe, right? Not me. What worries me, and it should worry everybody, is that 10th of a percent of germs it can't kill. Those have got to be some bad hombres. Those are the ones that scare me! Those are the ones I want to avoid.

Well, I could continue on with this little rant, but I need to head out to McDonalds, order hot chocolate, spill it on my lap and then sue them for the burn.