When I was young, I was always amazed at how some things I ate passed right through me.
Yellow bits of corn.
Green beans.
Bits of carrot and red bell pepper.
Disgusting, I know.
But every so often, when I wake up with blood on my lips, I keep lookout for the tell-tale glint of a gold ring.
I scoop it out with a toilet-brush and drop it into a glass of bleach.
I’ve found dozens of rings that way.
As for the finger bones, I flush those with the rest of the waste, and head for the bus station.
Tag: medical
Spit Donor
Some guys make a few extra bucks donating their blood plasma, and others market their sperm, but I think I’m the only professional saliva donor out there.
Where I have overactive salivary glands, others are the opposite.
And you may think a cup of warm spit isn’t worth a cup of warm spit, to them it’s like liquid gold.
This being my livelihood, I have to charge a fair market value for my efforts.
Most people are shocked when they get the bill, but if they think my spit is expensive, they should see how much my lawyers charge me.
Cripple the cripple
Gordon Kane bet Stephen Hawking $100 that the Higgs-Boson exists.
And won, but despite acknowledging this, Stephen Hawking has yet to pay up.
How do you collect on that kind of bet?
It’s not like you can call your cousins from New Jersey into leaning on the guy.
“So, you think you’re some kind of smart guy?” your cousin Lenny says, and then he realizes, yes, this cripple in the wheelchair with the robot voice talking about black holes and galaxies is really damn smart.
At least he can’t put up much of a fight when they break his legs.
Stampede
At our retirement community, we have just as many weddings as funerals.
Because when someone dies, someone else rushes to marry the widow or widower.
“Married people live longer,” the studies say, “And if your mate dies, you’ll go soon after.”
Nobody here wants to go without a fight. So, the moment there’s an opening, those who haven’t already paired up rush to the side of the bereaved to offer their sympathies.
It’s like a stampede. A dangerous, wrinkled stampede.
So, unless you put on a wedding ring, I can’t give you the nurse job.
It’s just not safe here.
Too much of an mmmm mmmm good thing…
I’ve gotten into the habit of bringing cans of soup to work for lunch.
“It’s good food,” the commercials say. “Mmmm mmmmm good!”
But instead of following the directions, I pour two cans into a single bowl, stir it up, and heat it without adding water.
It’s just as thick as the chunky style soup, I figure. And cheaper, too.
And I don’t have to fish about for the vegetables and noodles as much.
That’s when it hits me… my stomach… my guts… too much!
Help me throw it up, or I’ll die of an overdose of Mmmmm mmmmm goodness!
Scale
I keep the bathroom scale under the sink.
It’s one of those expensive scales that measures body fat and blood pressure and all that stuff. Tracks your progress on the Internet, too.
Well, every so often, my littlest cat likes to walk into the bathroom, pull down the hanging towels, and she then stands on the scale.
Ten pounds.
“Who’s a happy little kitty?” I ask her.
She arches her back, ears twitching, and blinks happily at me.
Meanwhile, the scale talks to Weight Watchers, and at the end of the week, my chart is a wacky series of spikes.
Melt Away
The moment Joe stepped into the shower, he felt like all his troubles were melting away.
And from the puddle of bloody goo the police found clogging the drain of Joe’s tub, it appeared that Joe melted along with them.
How this happened, the coroner never quite figured out.
They looked over everything… the half-empty bottle of tequila, his prescriptions…
“It says DO NOT TAKE WITH ALCOHOL,” said the coroner. “But that just causes liver damage, not this.”
The Army was interested for a while and did some experiments on prisoners, but all it did was get them really drunk.
DNA
The DNA test results came back, and my father is not my father.
“Who is my father?” I asked.
“We have no idea,” said the lab technician. “But if you get us a DNA sample, we can run tests on it.”
So, I’ve been gathering up DNA from every man in the world.
Living or dead.
Well, except for the man who I thought was my father.
“I raised you, son!” I heard him say. “Come take a sample from me! It’s the least you can do!”
So, I took a scraping from his cheek.
And closed the coffin lid.
Bubble Boy
Teddy was a bubble boy.
He’d spent his entire childhood in a germ-free environment.
Despite bone marrow transplants, he never grew his own immune system.
So, he stayed in his specially-made room in his parent’s house, and connected to others through his computer and cameras throughout the world.
He had a lot of friends online, one of which who’d ride rollercoasters with a camera on her head, then sending the videos to Teddy.
He loved the thrill, but the dizziness made him ill.
Then came the stroke.
Teddy died with a smile (and a bit of vomit) on his face.
Bloomberg
The elevator groaned under the weight of the morbidly obese passengers inside.
*BING*
The doors opened, and the mayor, pinned to the wall, squeezed his way out into the hallway.
He sighed, dashed out a quick note, and headed to the press room.
Dozens of fat reporters, tossing questions at him.
“SHUT UP!” he shouted. “SHUT THE HELL UP!”
Everyone went silent.
“AS OF NOW, NO MORE SUPER SIZED SUGAR BEVERAGES! SMALLER PORTION SIZES IN RESTAURANTS! WE’RE GONNA GET FUCKIN’ HEALTHY!”
The mayor’s decree took effect, and people just got fatter.
Because they order two of the smaller portions now.