To begin, today, I would like to thank my #1 referral this week, the Google search for "Jamie Gold Sued." The Tao of Poker was a distant second.
Showcase always thinks he's dying. He's a borderline hypochondriac. And he's Jewish. A couple of months ago, he found this tiny lump on his back, below his shoulder and demanded, nearly every day that I feel it for him.
"It's bigger today, isn't it?"
"Yeah. It's swollen because you keep poking at it. Chill the fuck out."
Showcase wouldn't stop touching it and became convinced he had back cancer. He even went and saw a doctor about it, who told him that it was absolutely nothing. I had a great "I told you so" moment when he walked in the door that particular afternoon.
Over the last few days, Showcase had been complaining of stomach problems. I told him it was probably indigestion from the Jack in the Box "Outlaw Burger" he'd eaten for lunch that day. But it hurt again the next day. And the next.
By Saturday, Showcase was convinced he had stomach cancer and, over Rosh Hashanah dinner, obtained the phone number of a Beverly Hills specialist from his equally Jewish hypochondriac friend Marissa. He got himself an appointment for Tuesday.
Well, Showcase saw that doctor yesterday. He came home with a smirk and a bottle of Nexium.
"So, what's the verdict? Acid reflux? You have Ashlee Simpson disease?"
"Probably. But they have to do some tests to rule out other things."
"What sort of test?"
That is a question I never should have asked.
For three days, Showcase has to take his own stool sample, and mail it back to the doctor in an envelope. An envelope. He has to take a shit, then take this white plastic thing and stick it in the shit to get a sample. Then he takes the shit stick and puts it into a compartment of this envelope. After three days, he sticks a stamp on the thing and goes to the post office.
How is this sanitary? And who opens those envelopes?
I have $10 on an ulcer. And can no longer walk into my bathroom without thinking of the shit envelope in the left-side drawer.
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4 comments:
You can't even make up this kind of shit.
You should intercept one of those envelopes, write "Return to Sender" on it, and leave it for him on his pillow.
Oh my god - that is so gross it's hysterical. I'm literally sitting here laughing out loud.
Perhaps a substitution of some dog excrement for his sample might be an interesting medical riddle.
He may get diagnosed with worms.
Imagine the mind bend that would put on him.
Very funny post.
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