In Which Dr. Indifferent Pushes His Luck
From Chez Miscarriage--one of the funniest blogs I've read in a long time, and one that (thanks to Allison) has been added to my daily reading list. (This may only be hysterically funny to those of us who've had mammograms. And the rest of the post may only be funny to those who've had pelvic exams. Consider yourself warned.)
For all you women out there who have never undergone a mammogram, here's what happened once they got me into the imaging room. Other mammogram survivors can back me up on this.
First, a cadre of drunk fraternity boys dangled handfuls of Mardi Gras beads in front of my bewildered face and screamed, "SHOW US YOUR TITS!" And I took off the hospital gown, because I wanted those bead necklaces. They were colorful and shiny and plastic, and it's not like I could just buy sixty dozen of them at the dollar store. So I disrobed. The fraternity boys cheered. I smugly dropped some necklaces over my head and moved closer to the imaging machine.
"Hold still! Don't move!" the technician instructed, and then - without warning - Muhammad Ali began to pound on my right tit with an enormous mallet. "Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee!" he sang, "Take this mallet, flatten your titty!" My right breast fell onto the floor.
So I got some popcorn and, of course, several cubic feet of cola. All I wanted was a "small," honest, but you know how these things are rigged against you, where it's, like, you can get an addition 128 oz. for only seven cents, and if you don't go for it the cashier looks at you like you must be the stupidest thing ever to claw its way out of a grave and wander around in search of brains, so you're, like, "oh, what's seven cents compared to the withering scorn of a nineteen year-old making minimum wage?" and the next thing you know you're staggering away with cup of Dr. Pepper the size of Kirsty Alley.
Now, you may object to the aliens in my example above, but of course you can just replace them with a genocidal tyrant and his henchmen, and the whole world with your entire ethnic group, and mind-control rays with hideous torture under which you will beg for death but it will be denied. See? All tidy. So, basically what I’m saying is, shut the fuck up about that bomb.
When you call Child Welfare, PLEASE get the story straight. Not only do I leave her alone with paper towels, I set her in the middle of a flea-infested floor and surround her with sharp objects and porn. Then I turn on a wood-burning stove in the corner of the room and seal all the windows. Before I leave the room and lock the door, I stick a bottle full of vodka in her mouth, you know, to muffle the screaming.