NewscomaGot A Two-Pack Habit And A Motel Tan

So here’s the story:

I haven’t been feeling up to snuff lately, sorta tired and fatigued. I know a lot of you go through that and I just chalked it up to middle-age madness, stress or something like that.

I decided, under the glare of Homer and Squirrel Queen’s laser eyeballs, to go to the doctor. I’ve been stressed, and I decided recently not to be stressed anymore. (Yeah, like that is easy.) But I realized there was some beauty in being apathetic, so I decided to give a whirl.

Anyway, I’d been having some killer headaches. I went and bought a vat of Meth Benedryl thinking the culprit of my woes was sinus, because here in Hooterville, it’s harvest time and that means I’m sneezing.

But over the past couple of weeks, my arm started to hurt. As I do absolutely nothing physical, I once again chalked it up to old age and being a bit stressed out. I thought drinking a beer might help. Or four. Yeah, it made me forget why I drank a beer in the first place, but then again, the arm was hurting.

On top of this, I’ve been a bit forgetful and going into a zoned out affliction that I cannot explain. I thought this was just a case of the burning stupids which I run into occasionally. But, according to Homer, I’ve been a bit odder than usual.

So, to make a long story even longer, I decided to go to the doctor because I was having these pains. I knocked it off as a developing ulcer, but lo’ and behold, it wasn’t in my stomach, it was in my chest. And I realized this discomfort was not new, but had been going on for weeks.

Once again, Newscoma is stressed, right?

So, I went into the walk-in clinic (remember, laser beams come out of Squirrel Queen’s eyes which can do much damage and scares the dogs) and told them what was going on. Took my temp, had one. Took my blood pressure and…

Well, let’s just say it wasn’t of the good. Like stroke-level not good.

Yikes.

Then they tell me to take my shirt off and put the sticky electrodes on and there were a lot of people running around and although they were checking me out, I knew something was up, because they seemed to be communicating telepathically.

When the nurse who took the EKG said “My” softly, I must say I was worried.

So, I’m going to a cardiologist on Friday. My doctor told me that they sent the results to this guy and he wants me in pronto. (I thought I’d have a couple of weeks, but, alas, no.)

I have to do some tests tomorrow and then meet with him the next day. I was told I’d have to do a stress test and some other stuff.

I asked the doc if I could just enjoy my weekend as it is my birthday. He said yes, but that come Monday, I better get myself some skinless grilled chicken and to throw the butter in the dumpster. The jury is still out on beer.

Yeah, turning 42 is lots of fun.

Yesterday, I saw that someone had stapled a story that Squirrel Queen wrote on a wall of a new restaurant in town. She didn’t think anything about it, but I thought it was pretty cool. When I write an editorial or a story, very rarely do I see it put on the wall, although I did find out on a bathroom wall once that I sucked. It made me laugh that someone, drunkenly, wrote what a butthole I am.

Sorta made me proud.

Anyway, SQ and I pondered for a moment why this particular story was honored in this new place. Neither one of us know the reason this was done.

Rumor has it that Mike Keith of the Tennessee Titans also has one of her stories up on his wall, although I have no idea if this is true or not, I like to think it is.

Back to seeing her story on the wall, it’s a new juke joint, chicken wing place that is open yet unfinished to a large degree. I asked her what was so significant about that particular story and she wasn’t sure.

With that said, sports, especially in small towns, brings people together. But as I write that, that’s not true necessarily. How many times have I sat in a larger venue and found instant, two-hour friends cheering for the same team that I will never see again?

Countless.

There is no rhyme or reason to this post, but every once in awhile, I find it very interesting, the business of sports and how it all connects.

And how that an eight inch story made a difference into the owner’s life enough to find a stapler and slam it into the wall.

Everything is connected in some way, even if we have no idea how that all works.