The Folly of Testing

YEARS AGO I HAD A FRIEND WHO WENT FOR HER ANNUAL MAMMOGRAM, as did most women back then. This was in the early 1990s when a yearly mammogram was advised. Her results were normal, so, confident that she was healthy, Terry slacked off on breast self-exams and went about her busy life caring for her three kids. What she couldn't know was that soon after, a tumor took root inside her breast. By the time she had the next mammogram, her Stage-4 cancer  required a double mastectomy, a bone marrow transplant and two months of hospitalization. Fortunately, she survived.

I think of her whenever I hear people clamoring for more Covid testing. Why?

Joe, Shoveling the Shit

Joe getting ready to meet with  the climate.

I just turned on the TV for a few minutes looking for the afternoon news but instead saw Joe Biden, a dead-ringer for his wax statue at Madame Tussaud's except less lifelike, saying what he and Kamala Harris, his newly-appointed second banana, have in store for us. It's pretty exciting stuff, I must say.

For starters, the two of them are going to "meet the climate crisis." Not sure how, when or where that meeting will take place or who will be in attendance. The wind? The sun? The mind boggles. Anyway, I'm stoked.

He also said that he and Kamala will "deliver millions of jobs to those currently unemployed." So I guess that means they will end Covid-19 so everyone can go back to all those shuttered workplaces. Very cool! And best of all, they will "restore the soul of the country so we can all move forward." I for one desperately need some soul restoration, and I'm hoping that "moving forward" means I will finally lose those stubborn ten pounds and fit into my skinny pants. 

Poor Kamala

Yesterday Kamala Harris was named as the Democrat's choice for VP on the ticket headed by Joe Biden. All the pictures in the news show her smiling from ear to ear, like she's just won the lottery or something. That's just one way I'm different from her. I'd be wondering what's to be happy about.

Here's Kamala before she didn't have to look happy all the time.

Thanks to our 24-hour news cycle, Kamala's life is about to turn really bad. Her personal history will be picked apart like a turkey carcass the day after Thanksgiving. Pictures of her will appear worldwide, in every newspaper and on the internet. TV's talking heads and late-night comics will gleefully distort her every move; some will be flattering, others not. Soon enough her worst facial features will be exaggerated to portray her in political cartoons. She will become fodder for Twitter, Facebook, Tik-Tok, Instagram and every other crummy website and blog (like this one) where the masses, including those clueless unemployed basement-dwellers, will chew her up and spit her out.

No more late night partying for her! She'll have to wake up early every day, schlep out of bed and then sit still while someone does her hair and makeup, then dress up nice to attend meetings with stuffy old men like Joe Biden, who she will have to let smell her hair and squeeze her shoulders. Her DNC handlers will tell her what to say and how to say it, reminding her to smile, smile, smile, even when she doesn't feel well, like if her bunions hurt or she's battling symptoms of menopause -- she is after all 55. And of course she'll have to lie like a dog; that's a given.

All for what? Remind me. Oh right, if the Democrats win she can be trotted around the country like a prize show horse, attending county fairs and funerals of dignitaries, and fly off to long meetings with world leaders who are mostly other stodgy old men like Joe, but with accents. Worst of all, she'll have to live in Washington, D.C. where it's a long, hot summer for months on end and those daily afternoon thunderstorms are wicked. Plus the humidity makes your hair very frizzy.

Good luck Kamala! You're gonna need it.

Free Advice for Doctors

Earlier today I had foot surgery. Well, more like a procedure on my foot that involved it being cut with a sharp tool and bandaged to stop the bleeding afterward. It was a biopsy for a suspicious mole, and you know those are not to be trusted. The whole thing took maybe three minutes, but I have worried about it for the past five weeks. This is just plain stupid. So yes, I am calling myself stupid.

It's just that when I went to the dermatologist last time and he spotted the thing, nestled cosily between two toes to avoid being seen, he set up today's appointment and added, "It's probably nothing but we need to check it out. It might hurt a little." So of course my brain filtered out the part about it probably being nothing and went with the fact that it would hurt. Maybe. A little. Still, whenever I flashed on the upcoming appointment, that's what I thought of.

So here's my advice to doctors: Don't say scary shit! Just say, "It's nothing, don't give it another thought." Jeeze, what do they teach these kids in med school anyway?

How to Save Your Life

It's best to stay indoors these days since the world outside has gone nuts.

So now the "peaceful protesters" are destroying good neighborhoods, not just their own crappy ones. Recent incidents in Chicago saw throngs of looters causing huge amounts of damage to many high-end structures, crashing cars into the glass fronts of fancy department stores, then running inside and coming out with armloads of merchandise. In the Georgetown neighborhood of Washington, D.C., groups of "peaceful protesters" marched through the lovely, manicured streets late at night, shouting obscenities and freaking out residents. And for what? Oh right, because black lives matter.

Here in Maine, those Black Lives Matter signs are springing up like weeds. The nicer the neighborhood, the more signs you see. The funny part is that they are prevalent in areas where one has never even seen a black person with a life that matters or not, since our black population is only 1.7%. So exactly what is the homeowner saying? Whenever I see one of those signs I mentally translate it to, "Please Don't Hurt Me."

Political Pussy-grabbing

I am old enough to remember when the President of the United States was chosen based on merit. What mattered was the candidate's political experience, innate leadership capabilities, accumulated knowledge of world affairs and ability to connect with the people.

Those days are long gone. Now we have candidate Joe Biden, who has clearly exhibited signs of senile dementia and surely, if elected, will not serve a whole term, choosing a running mate who will likely succeed him to the Oval Office based on two factors and two factors only: genitals and skin color.

Poor Joe, who is being led around by the Democratic machine, is being forced to name a running mate who is black and female. That's it. The only requirements. As the also-senile black California Congresswoman Maxine Waters, age 81, put it two days ago, "He can't go home without a black woman being VP." Seems like the Democrats, who call Trump a "pussy-grabbing racist" every chance they get, plan on doing just that themselves. 

Film Review: DALLAS BUYERS CLUB

If you think the Covid-19 pandemic is bad, it may help to recall when AIDS first hit the streets. To refresh your memory, the 2013 based-on-a-true-story Dallas Buyers Club brings it all back with a wallop. I passed on this film when it played in theaters because it seemed too depressing, and it turns out it is. But the fact that both lead actors, Matthew McConaughey and Jared Leto, won well-deserved Oscars for their performances (Best Actor, Best Supporting Actor) softens the blow of the film's dire plot.

McConaughey is especially memorable in his role as Ron Woodroof, a Texas electrician and part-time cowboy who loves the ladies and thus is shocked by an AIDS diagnosis giving him just 30 days to live. He rejects this outright and storms out of the doctor's office, intent on proving him wrong. And he does.

Instead of dying, Ron sets about finding a cure for himself and others like him, eventually setting up a "club" for selling unapproved drugs he obtains in Mexico and other foreign countries, thereby extending the lives of hundreds of gay men who would otherwise die from the FDA-approved drugs that weren't working. One of those poor souls is Rayon (Jared Leto), a trans-woman Ron meets in the hospital who is a drug addict dying of AIDS. They eventually become close friends despite Ron's initial disgust and repulsion of Rayon's female lifestyle, he/she all gussied up in nail polish, makeup, high heels, flowing dresses and long hair.

Be forewarned, between Ron and Rayon there's a lot of coughing up of blood. There are also many scenes of nude dancing at topless bars featuring closeups of various bodily orifices, and three-way sex between unwholesome characters, so if you are prudish or sensitive about that sort of thing, stay away. Otherwise the film is a powerful reminder that pandemics come and pandemics go. Also, it's a chance to see McConaughey, a former sex symbol, looking rail-skinny after losing almost fifty pounds for the role (see photo). He is stunningly convincing as someone hanging out at death's door.