Don’t Panic

This has nothing to do with the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy being shown on Starz this month.  I wish it did…

So Qwest finally unfucked my phones. Yay! I can call 1–900–yeah-baby-yeah without burning all my “in” minutes. And the telemarketers can find me once again. Double yay!

Last night, I came home and found a message waiting. Who could it be? The PBA fundraiser? Magazines? A political survey sponsored by WalMart, trying desperately to figure out why everyone hates them? (Clue #1 – you suck ass, you fucking trailer park-idolizing bastards. Start there and the rest will fall into place.)


Hi, this is Linda with Dr. Happy Finish. Dr. Hsppy got your blood test results back (wtf? Just now? Didn’t this happen already? I just saw her Friday and we talked about it.) and wants you to have a [non-invasive diagnostic procedure].

*ominous sense of foreboding. Then, sleep, thanks to the beer gods.*

I was about to write something comparing how shitty my entire existence was a year ago to how mostly great it is right now. Perhaps I will put that on hold.


Me: Good morning Linda. Exactly what does Dr. Happy want to have examined?

Linda: Exactly what you have suspected for the last 12 hours.

Me: Hmmmm. Thursday sucks ass already.

So, i googled the procedure + the blood work results + the target of the exam + for my own demented humor, ‘I’m feeling lucky’” which led to much “Oh fuck”-ing when I saw the results.

I guessed what she apparently suspects even before the google results. Not because of any particular problem I am having – just the “oh this is fucking sweetirony given the last four years, the last year and the last few months. You’re a twisted bitch, Karma.

I have to keep reminding myself that I am not at the stage described on google yet, and that Karma, while a slave to the irony, is hopefully not humorless. In all probability, this is a cosmic joke that goes on a little to long. Like the jokes on SNL. Or mine. We are in the see what’s up stage. It is in all likelihood, just a drill and an excuse to squeeze $ out of the insurance co. That is my take, until I hear otherwise, dammit.

Still, I need a fucking beer. And a fucking cigar. And a couple of other things. This drama is not one of them.

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