ConstantCommentary® Vol. XI, No. 169, November 25, 2010



Funny as a heart attack

Whompa, whompa, whompa.

I don't know about you, but every time I get whisked away to surgery I always get that gurney with the bad wheel. You know the one I'm talkin' about? Makes that funny whompa, whompa, whompa noise?

Whompa, whompa, whompa.

I remember my mom telling me, "Be sure to wear clean underwear. You never know when you might get in an accident and wind up at a hospital."

Fooled you, mom. I'm not wearing any underwear.

Whompa, whompa, whompa.

Four nurse faces looking down at me. My pants are undone and rolled down to my knees. It's cold, freezing.

"You nurses know about shrinkage, right? I don't have to explain shrinkage to you, do I? I will if I have to."

Whompa, whompa, whompa.

I had walked into the emergency room after mulling it over for a good 12 hours. It was a Sunday afternoon and I had just finished mowing the lawn. I was drinking a beer and smoking a cigarette when I felt this sharp pain in my chest. Dammit! Do I have acid reflux?

I figured it would help if I drank more beer and smoked more cigarettes, but just to hedge my bet I chugged some Pepto-Bismal as well.

Whompa, whompa, whompa.

The doctor told me I would need an angioplasty and possibly a couple of stents. Apparently they start at your groin and then snake a tube up through your artery until it reaches your heart. I thought it was odd that the doctor would start at my groin to get to my heart. But the more I thought about it the more I realized, hell, that's how everybody gets to my heart.

Whompa, whompa, whompa.

"I think I have acid reflex," I told the doctor in the emergency room.

"No, you mean acid reflux," he said.

"No," I said. "I mean if you hit my knee one more time with that hammer, I'll probably throw up on you."

Everybody laughs.

Whompa, whompa, whompa.

The test results come in. "Yes, you definitely had a heart attack," the doctor says quietly. Nobody laughs except me. I stop laughing when I realize he's not kidding.

Whompa, whompa, whompa.

"You can't joke your way out of this," I thought. But that thought was quickly replaced by, "Sure I can. Just watch me."

Whompa, whompa, whompa.

As the nurses roll me down the hallway I look up to see my girlfriend crying. What the fuck is she crying about? Oh, that's right. I just had a heart attack. I'm going to surgery. I guess I could die. I don't feel like I'm going to die, but I suppose it's possible.

That marked the exact second I quit smoking.

Whompa, whompa, whompa.

Well, at least you're not thinking about Jesus. Thank god for small miracles.

Whompa, whompa, whompa.

So. This is what happens when you turn 50. Definitely not doing that again any time soon.

Whompa, whompa, whompa. Whompa, whompa, whompa. Whompa, whompa, whompa, Whompa, whompa, whompa. 

* * *

STANDARD DISCLAIMER: This column aims to be funny. If you can read anything else into it, you're on your own.




Mike Jasper is a writer and musician living in Austin, Texas.

Originally from the San Francisco Bay Area, he claims strong ties to Seattle, St. Petersburg, Florida and North Platte, Nebraska.


© 2010 by Mike Jasper, All Rights Reserved. ConstantCommentary® is published whenever Mike Jasper feels like it. All material is the responsibility of the author.