Several weeks ago, I wrote about the state of my prostate. The results are in. It turns out that I, despite all of my years spent eating Flintstones vitamins, am not a qualified health-care professional.
So I did not cancel my scheduled wellness checkup, because it was tougher to get than a Tickle-Me Elmo. (Which, now that I think about it, is pretty much what I was looking for.) And if I, a white male with extreme medical concerns, could barely get a doctor’s appointment before the end of the next Clinton presidency, I knew that untold other American citizens must be dying out there.
Which they are—nearly seven thousand every day. That’s one whole person for every 219 Big Macs sold. When I was born, I did not sign up for a world where people die. Namely, I did not sign up for a world where I could die.
If healthcare wasn’t going to make me invincible, then by gum, I would. I’d already taken matters into my own hands. That didn’t work. So it was time to take matters into my own mouth.
Good God, I hope by that I mean “take a CPR class.” This new nugget of Fool’s Gold is washin’ up today on the shores of the New Mexico Mercury. You better read it, so you can get that mouth-image out of your mind.