Personal Assistant Kikkaido Message! Fourteen Battle

I am pleased to say that The Playboy of the Western World survived his final cardio assesment. You might recall that he momentarily died when he was injected with whatever heart accellerant crap they injected him with last time.

See, to me, the very fact that he is physically incapeable of the relatively gentle exercise needed kind of indicates that yes, there is a certain amount of cardiac stress already occurring here. But no, they wanted to be all scientific about it, so they sent him home (to stress out for three weeks about the upcoming do-over) made him starve for half a day beforehand (more stress) with no coffee or chocolate (inhumane levels of stress; I bought him a cheesecake) and then called him back in all early in the morning and shit so he could sit in the damn waiting room for half an hour after his procedure was scheduled AGAIN. And stress.

So we're cooling our heels, reading magazines together when I turned the page to reveal this advertisement: a big green wino monster with crap all dripping off it and huge block letters which say KISS ME I'M MUCUS!
We both went 'Aaaa!' and I tossed the magazine aside. The receptionist almost knocked her chair over.
Cardiac patients who jump and say 'Aaaa!' in the waiting room is probably one of the things she's trained to respond to as an emergency.

Finally they take him back, injected him with meth and shoved him in the easybake oven for twenty minutes and placed bets or whatever goes on back there. They wouldn't let me come back with him so I don't know. I'm left jitterbugging on the worlds most uncomfortable waiting room chairs reading back issues of People magazine so old that Jennifer and Brad are still together and thinking 'You stupid, stupid woman; thats BRAD FRICKEN PITT and you just let that run around off-leash like a dog at the park. Serves your moron ass right he ended up with Fishlips.'

He survives part one.
They roll him back out to the waiting room with a candybar and a bottle of water, and then 45 minutes later they DID IT ALL OVER AGAIN.
Twenty more minutes of wriggling and flumping from cheek to cheek on the giraffe legged cement chairs wondering if he's coming home in my car or the coroners van.

He survives part two.
And we hightail it out of there. And I mean he was banking up the corners up on two wheels like Dukes of Hazzard. I had to scamper up in front of him to open the doors and just impressed the hell out of myself; I can still scamper with the best of them. Dang.

Lunch at the Olde Englishe Halfe Timberede Lesbiane Bar. The waittress hadn't even fully greeted us before he looked at her over his glasses and cut her off. 'Coffee, honey' he said in regal tones. "It's been awhile. And SHE takes cream," he added, gesturing towards me.

I love this man.

Back to the Leopold. As I pull up to the porte cochere a lumpy old gent just wandered right out in front of the car and went lumbering cluelessly across my bow. " Oh that's Mr. Whatizface" says The Playboy. 'You can hit him.' He did look well insured. Still, Mr. Whatizface was a pretty solid looking chunk of geezer, and I drive a compact, so I asked if I could take a pass and The Playboy agreed.

All I can say is this better be the last time they pull this shit. His recent medical adventures are largely the result of his doctors not communicating with each other (I've seen it in action. Or not in action. Happening, anyway. Or not-oh fuck it.) All of them are trying out their pet theories one after the other. With my father-in-law as the subject, getting batted back and forth to various clinics and testing facilities like a well-insured ping pong ball with a walker, all covered with cotton balls and sticky tape. I mean come on. It's still a small town here, folks. Most of you see each other every day. Barring that there's email. What? Go old school then. None of these people can pick up a damn phone and arrange a conference call? What?
Welcome to Bellingham, home of the nations' C student medical school grads.
I SAY: Get over yourselves and do your fucking jobs.
You are pissing me OFF.
This you DO NOT WANT.