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Tuesday, November 17, 2015

Are You a Hypochondriac?

Scotto and I have a standard thing where, if we have a sudden pain or sharp twinge, we just say to each other, “Don’t worry about it. It’s probably just a nerve”.

For example, my thumb will start to randomly twitch.

“Parkinsons!” I’ll gasp, my face white with fear.

And Scotto will say: “It’s probably just a nerve. Either that or you drank too much last night. You’ll be right.”

One side of my face will go numb and I can only talk from the left side of my mouth whilst dribbling profusely: “Stroke!” I’ll slur.

“It’s a nerve.” Scotto will scoff. “Don’t be a sook. Here, have a wine.”

My left leg falls off and I go blind in one eye: “It’s only a nerve,” he’ll admonish. "You’ll be better tomorrow. Come on hop-a-long. Let’s go to the pub."

All joking aside, I’m sort of known as Dr. Poinker at work.

When I say ‘sort of’ I mean I’m not.

But I should be because I know lots of stuff most non-medical people don’t on account of being a hypochondriac. I can diagnose everyone’s maladies from pernicious anaemia to a carbuncle on the ankle. GPs hate my guts.

It started way before the Internet too. I had a medical encyclopaedia I read as fastidiously as one might read a copy of An Idiot’s Guide to Writing Inane Blog Posts.

So I was excited last night when I did one of those Facebook quizzes that tested medical knowledge. Twelve questions it promised, but it lied. There were fifty questions. FIFTY! But once I got started I couldn’t stop and I knew from my maniacal tallying, I got 46 out of 50 correct and I wanted to skite about it on Facebook.

But when I went to get my results I had to submit my email address and I thought, ‘Get fudged! I don’t want to be spammed with your stupid emails.’

So then I tried to leave a nasty comment on the link but it put me in a never ending loop and I was left frustrated and probably hacked by Russian bots during the process.

NB: Not to pick on the Russians. It might have been anyone really but I doubt anyone reads my blog in Russia so they’re fair game.

If you do happen to be Russian and you read this blog, I must add that I really loved Olga Korbut, that gymnast in the 70s but I do wonder why you sent that poor little mongrel dog into space in 1957 and left it to endlessly orbit the galaxy. Not that I hold a grudge about it because I do love Tchaikovsky and Vodka.

R.I.P. Laika. 

If my dogs were sent into space I reckon I’d still be able to hear them barking as they orbited Earth in the space machine. The greenhouse gasses would be exponentially enhanced by the permeating cloud of citrus spray from their barking collars. I’m sure a few local animal management officers would be more than glad to see them on a direct trajectory to Mars, not to mention the neighbours.

They’d have to cut off their oxygen supply in the end, I suppose.

Just like I’m about to do to my German Shepherd if he doesn’t shut the hell up.

Sorry to be harping on about my barking dogs but it’s driving me loony. Anything driving you loony lately?