That stress test has me all stressed out.
I hate those things. He should just stick me with a needle—needles don't bother me—and suck out my blood like he usually does, then send it off to a lab where they run it through those spinning machines before sending the results back that say, "You're healthy as a horse. And a great big old strong-as-an-ox horse, at that!"
But no, he wants me to go take off my shirt and drop my pants in a cold, cold room where this guy who doesn't know me or like me sticks round pieces of tape to my wrinkled skin, connecting me by wires to some electronic gizmo he calls "Old Sparky," before he forces me to try to do physical things I haven't been able to do since I was seventeen years old.
All in an effort to either
- Kill me in order to make more real-estate room for some other old person on the face of this planet or
- Precipitate a heart "event" that will sling me onto that great health-industry conveyor belt on my way to one or more of the many available heart operations designed to make cardiac surgeons and hospital CEO's obscenely rich.
But, you know, come to think of it, my doctor's nurse didn't call to remind me of the appointment. I could always just drive uptown and make a long stopover at Camellia Grill, get me some eggs-with-a-bubble and bacon, biscuits on the side, and calculate the time the stress test would have taken before driving home and having a nice steak-and-loaded baked-potato lunch with Bobby.
Nobody would be any the wiser...
Not a bad plan.