I got hopped up on insurance recently, probably due to the fact that I changed companies about two years ago and recently discovered that, should I die in a horrific flaming car wreck surrounded by large-breasted women with Bonepony’s “Stomp Revival” in all 6 slots of my 6-slot CD changer, their insurance policy on me doesn’t pay squat.Why would family members cut the brakes to my car if there’s nothing to inherit? I can’t expect to be liked on personality alone so ‘inheritance’ is something I want my kin to be muttering when they think about me.
Insurance policies require blood tests and such and they sent a nice lady over to see me to handle all of that. Sweety asks me how it went.
“I guess it was fine,” I say.
“What was your blood pressure?”
“120/80.”
“That’s normal, right?”
“I am never sure. On charts it shows 120/80 and down is normal but 120-139 is pre-hypertension. Either way, I think I am okay.”
“What else do they do?”
“They take a blood sample and a urine sample.”
“Did it hurt?”
“The urine sample? No, she held it very gently.”
Silence. I know what is happening; she is giving me the look. You know what look I mean. The look that is supposed to tell me it is Valentine’s Day. Like I don’t know. I am the one who had to go to Target to buy her that $4 box of candy.
“24 hours. That’s all I ask.” She says. She means 24 hours without a reference to another woman’s vagina or sex acts with other women. Especially deviant sex acts involving urine. Even as a joke.
“But if I stop making those jokes today you’d just expect it again tomorrow.”
“You are not around that much. I just want to see if you can do it for one day.”
Thus I have decided that, in the spirit of romance, I will make the effort. So here you go, people. 24 hours of humor without reference to supermodels, vaginas or cocaine.
Sweety, I hope you are happy. I won’t make my $.05 on Google AdSense today because those jokes are the only reason people bother to read my blog.
