My fourth near death experience had lots of running half naked men, rocks, and a taxi with a shattered windshield. It happened two days ago.
Oh wait, but was it my fifth already? I don't know, I lost count. It's not that I'm courting death or anything, but your life flashing right before you is not exactly an experience you need to relive for five times. Five times. It doesn't need to be in a row or anything, but it only takes one brush with death to make you want to stop and smell the roses before you're actually pushing roses from six feet below.
I almost drowned twice, been in an automobile accident three times, and I almost had my appendix explode on me once. What makes that last incident the closest so far was that the gangrenous little sonofabitch was a couple of minutes removed from implosion. Had I been any more idle and I could have been mothering a deadly infection that would have been, for all the right reasons, the death of me.
That's five times in 25 years. Five close encounters; it only takes one wrong turn of events, and I would be submitting one report I've never worked on before.
My own autopsy report.
If there was a God, I'd tell him that I get it already.
Anyway, on a lighter note, I went sunglass shopping with my friends earlier today. They were going to a company outing, so they need to look cool while catching some sun. One of my friends fancied this wicked little thing, and at a little more than the thousand peso mark, he wanted to make sure that it's worth the buck. So he asked the saleslady, "Miss, hindi ba magfa-fade yung tint nitong lens pag nalagyan ng tubig-alat? (Miss, are you sure that the tint on the lens will not fade if it gets a little salt water?)"
The sales lady then replied "Tingnan po natin! (Let's see!)" with the awful pep of a cheerleader. She then opened the glass showcase, took one of the lenses used for that pair of shades, threw that to the floor, and she stepped on it.
And then she stepped on it again. She was doing that Dance Revolution thing on a piece of eyewear. She then said "Hindi po (Nope)" without losing that smile in the process.
I was so totally disturbed by this completely unrelated demonstration that I found myself stomping on that stupid little fucker. And I was laughing at the same time too.
My friend bought that pair all the same.
I'm not a big fan of stool tests. You know, you're supposed to take these physical exams as a pre-requisite to employment. Or if you are already employed, they do these things annually just to check on your, uhm, physical well being. I take great pride in my clean bill of health, but I've never been too keen in taking a sample of my, uhm, crap. What makes it gross is you need to take a sample of your shit in a bottle.
Getting that piece of shit in that bottle is a completely different endeavour altogether. But before you do that, you need to be able to have something to put in that bottle. Have you ever crapped under pressure? Imagine this: medical clearances are due in an hour, and you don't feel nothing like taking a dump.
I'm telling you, it's not that freaking easy sitting on the shitter waiting for golden stool to happen.
Okay, so you managed to convince your bowel movement to do some actual movement. You will now take a deep breath and pray for intestinal fortitude. You will need to isolate the specimen. Imagine how easy things would be if they accepted stool samples on a wet tissue, but no. They had to pick that from a bottle.
So how exactly do I do it? With a piece of stick and surgical precision. Oh, and good aim, too. It's not that easy to catch things that float in water.
What's a blog soup?
Triggering the Dirty Finger
When is an Appendix Like a Penis?
The First Week