I Feel My Pain

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I don’t know if you people know what an “MRI” is, but I had one today. An MRI is a test where they stick you in a white tube, ask you not to move, and blast you with Pink Floyd noises.

Well apparently holding up your lighter and yelling “Freebird!” counts as moving. The doc conducting the test eventually freaked out, and I won. So I passed the test, right?

-Just to be a mean-spirited asshole, Witchdoctor Quack M.D. further implied I needed a “Blood Panel” too. A “Blood Panel” is when a dark-skinned chick with letters tattooed on her knuckles stabs you in the arm with a rusty icepick until she has gathered three tubes and illegibly scrawls them with black marker.  The scrawls are almost certainly cryptographic symbols for Breakfast, Lunch, and Dinner  (but I cannot back that up: the only tube labels I had time to make out said "Date Night" and "Not Cat").

Still, my agonized and noble shrieks and screams apparently warned others, and the clinic became surrounded by numerous loud car door slams and squealing tires. Finding my car in the parking lot will be easier now, right? I mean I’ve certainly passed this MRI bullish at this point!

But no. Nonetheless, this Third Trial was where I truly shined: my non-tiger blood came back as A+, clearly demonstrating its intellectual superiority over lesser, stupider bloods -and the same blood type I discovered my wife had the week before I suddenly proposed.

Take that, Charlie Sheen!