January 2019 – An afternoon visit to an urgent care center on December 28, 2018, culminated in an emergency cardiac catheterization and stent placement around midnight to stop a heart attack. A nuclear stress test on January 31, 2019, showed no signs of permanent damage to the heart.
“Of course we saw it coming, kitten. We’re dead, not blind.”
“Squeak? Squeak! Squeak.” [Translation: “Sympathy from a skeleton? Good luck! They’re heartless.”]
“And then I said, ‘We heard you were into adult toys, so we got you a blood pressure monitor.’ HA HA HA!”
“I’m not the least bit surprised he’s still alive. That boy seems incapable of following through on anything. He quit the basketball team in elementary school after one practice, never made it to Bear Scout, and for 18 years now he’s been remodeling his house which, I am told, is littered with half-read books.”
“‘Don’t vacuum for two weeks,’ they said. ‘Not a problem!’ he said. Pfft.”
“I’m just saying you’re less likely to get bruises wearing this.”
“Hematoma. Hm. Sounds sexist.”
“I’m an officer of love, baby, and you under cardiac arrest for breakin’ my heart.”
”No, kitten, you’ve confused the two: Boston Scientific makes the stents; Boston Market makes the chicken.”
“I’m not the least bit surprised he got a rash from those cheap generic drugs. He’s always had champagne tastes. Just ask him how much he pays for a pair of socks.”
”If you need more fiber in your diet you can always eat the box.”
“No, kitten. There are no study guides. It’s a stress test.”
“I’m not the least bit surprised he keeps checking the nutritional information on the box to see if the numbers have somehow magically changed. He can’t leave the house without checking the iron a hundred times.”
“Yes, Kitten. You just go on.”
“Why, kitten, you’re positively radiant! You must still be glowing from that radioactive dye they injected during your nuclear stress test.”
Mr. Funny Bones 
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