Saturday, September 5, 2009
I had to go to the veteran’s hospital last week--oops, sorry, it’s the VA Medical Center now.
First let me assure everyone that I’m fine, I have simply decided to ask Uncle Sugar, officially, if he’d like to cough up some cash for any of my little active-duty orthopaedic souvenirs (I regret that I have but one sacroiliac to give for my country).
The lady who took my history and went over my records sent me to the main building for x-rays, which is how I wound up flat on my back on an ice-cold metal table, clinging to a skimpy hospital gown and what was left of my dignity and listening to someone in the waiting room belting out “You Are My Sunshine.”
The singer turned out to be a tiny, frail old man, cocooned in blankets on a gurney. He either ran out of breath or verses, because by the time I reclothed and got back out there he had stopped singing and was flirting madly with a nurse.
(more Male Call on Dan Thompson's site).