Friday, June 19, 2009

Diagnosis: Fat

My truck is the only vehicle in the parking lot. I step out, shut the door and take a deep breath. It is a cloudy afternoon, but the blacktop leaks heat into the souls of my worn-out sneakers as I walk away from the furd and towards the medically-nondescript tan building.

The door is locked, and I put my face close to the glass, hands cupped around my eyes to cut the glare. Suddenly a very pregnant but very cute blond pops into view and I take a step back as she unlocks the bolt.

"Are you Alex?" I nod and she pushes the door the rest of the way open and I step inside. The scene is your basic medical waiting space: Pinkish-but-not-quite wall paper surrounds comfortable-but-not-quite wood and fabric furniture sprinkled with various cross-gender reading material, and a fish tank on the back wall.

I take a seat in the corner and pretend to be interested a National Geographic as I spy on the receptionist; I would guess 8 months, but she is very thin which makes it hard to tell. While I was staring and thinking about how I have been told some women have increased sex drive late in their pregnancy, she looks up from behind the counter, our eyes meet. Abort! Abort! I flip a page in the magazine and glance back up and she half smiles and tells me the doctor is back and will be with me shortly. Busted.

I am not here for any reason in particular, just a check up. But there is always that little nagging vioce deep in the back of your mind telling you that they are going to find something and your day will be totally ruined. Luckily, I am not old enough to get the lubed-finger of doom just yet.

I toss the magazine aside, and as I stare at the fish tank wondering what material would make a good fish-flake-food fly when the Doc calls me into the back.

He is a small man, and standing next to each other I can't help but think we would looks like the cover of the movie Twins, if Arnold had a gut and Danny Devito lost 60 pounds that is.

We exchange pleasantries and hows-your-mothers as we walk back into the exam room. Fifteen minutes and the standard what-have-you later the Doc is ready to lay it on me. He tosses some unintelligible paperwork on the table, adjusts his spectacles and takes a seat on the ever present rolley stool.

'Well, your blood pressure is great, and you seem to be pretty healthy but...." (here it comes) "I would like to see you lose some weight." Then he goes on to explain that walking is not really exorcise and 40oz curls don't count either, and I should cut down on the fast-food. Bummer. I told him if walking isn't doing me any good I guess I will just have to start driving to the convenience store across the street when I run out of beer. He didn't laugh.

He tells me that a monthly membership to a gym is not that much money, and explains that he loves to get up at the crack of dawn and work out and shower at the gym, and how great it is and how much money he saves on his water bill from showering there.

I tell him I think he has a fetish for showering around sweaty dudes, and he threatens me with a prostate exam. I told him to forget it, and that area is off-limits, especially to guys who like hanging around YMCA locker rooms. Plus, he may be in good shape but I got at least a benjamin on the Doc and I think I could take him.

As he walked me to the door, I look for the pregnant-hotness but she is nowhere to be found. I promise the Doc to look into some exorcise options, and head out the door toward the furd, hearing the door click locked behind me.

I close the door, turn the key and start to head home. After a few blocks I see a Sonic Drive-In, and wonderful images of onion rings and tater tots start to dance around my head. My mouth salivates, and my hand instinctively starts goes for the turn signal. But something stops me, and my hand falls back to the arm rest.

The Doc's words ring in my head, I fight to keep my foot off the break pedal. I begin to shake uncontrollably as the entrance to fried deliciousness approaches quickly. I let out a primal scream and throw the wheel to the left away from the onion rings and tots, and spin-out across 3 lanes of traffic sending women and children and pets fleeing for their lives.

The world spins as I careen over a curb and through some shrubbery as fast food wrappers and empty water bottles fly like crazed bats around my head. The vehicle comes to a screeching halt, and I lift my head and slowly look around.

I am in a parking lot, no not the lot itself, but a strange curved little roadway to one side of the it. I hear a strange voice outside the car asking me something. Asking what they can get for me today? What the hell is going on? I roll down the window and staring right back at me is a glowing menu of the Jack in the Box variety. The woman repeats the question, as I dumbly stare at the little speaker.

Nothing, I want nothing you evil temptress! But my mouth betrays me! "Uh.... I will take a number 4, I guess."

"And to drink?"

Nothing to drink either you dummy! My brain screams at my rumbling stomach. "Uh, a Sprite.... large"


-Alex who swears he doesn't have a "thing" for pregnant chicks, unless they have cheeseburgers.


  1. Anonymous5:41 AM

    If you ain't fixin' to eat those tots, pass 'em along over this way.

  2. Dangit. Now I'm hungry.

  3. you stay away from my tots, JPL!

  4. You should have asked that pregnant skinny number if she wanted to go Dutch at Sonic - that late in pregnancy she'd be a chipper-shredder (giving the doc something worse to scold)

  5. i went to a doctor once with man flu , i was in his office and couldnt help notice the trout and salmon magazine on his desk so we got to talking about fishing i managed to sell him 30 bucks worth of finest flies left his office without getting anything for the man flu infact we hadnt even discussed it so i ended up getting some beer at the supermarket across the road thanks doc worked a treat

  6. Don't go to doctors, they all say the same thing...exercise, lose weight, quit drinking.

    If you must, go to a fat doctor, then he can't be so sanctimonious about all that crap. Hopefully, he smokes as well.

    I had some midget doctor tell me to never go to Luke's (a Chicago-style Italian deli chain her in town), right after describing every item on the menu in great detil - he was originally from Chicago.

    Wish I had the photo handy, but it was in the paper the next month - me cramming a huge Luke's sandwich in my mouth, sheer buffoonery and joy. He must have sh*t, the little bastard, when that was published. I will never patronize a quack like that in the future.

  7. @KB- Hindsight.... its a bitch.

    @dave- got the man flu, huh? Sounds like a a beer RX is just the thing.

    @Rod- Going to a fat Dr. who smokes is good times, but it's like having someone who doesn't like steak cook your fillet. But I agree, Luke's kicks ass!

  8. Alex. If your serious. p90x Browse youtube and look at some dudes way chunkier than you loosing weight on it.


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