Bring Me My Pillow and My Wine

Like King Henry VIII, I am stricken with the gout. I have a big knot on the side of my foot where by big toe is attached and it hurts like a MoFo. I had a consulation this evening with Dr. Google and I'm not very impressed with this condition. No good drugs, no pampering or coddling. The advice for gout is basically to lose some of your fat ass and stop eating so much meat and booze. For the person who considers a big filet and half a bottle of wine a nice, balanced meal, this pretty much blows. I drowned my sorrows in a small glass of eggnog and bourbon and I'm hoping for a miracle cure. Bippity-boppity-bout, please go away, gout. As you get older you know that you will end up suffering from something but geesh, why couldn't I have something treated with some nice recreational drugs? I read that gout may be diagnosed by analyzing the fluid surrounding the inflamed joint. Unless this baby suddenly develops a blowhole I'm thinking the only way to procure this fluid is to stick a needle into my foot and I'm not about to do that. I suffered through an attempt to aspirate a ganglion cyst and when that was done, I stood up on the doctors table like Scarlett O'Hara and said, As God as my witness, I will never have a mass aspirated again and that was that. When you alter a classic literary passage to declare something you have to stick to it. Knowing my quack of a doctor he treats gout with morphine or something so it may be worth a trip over there. I hate having a HMO plan because I like to have 2 doctors. I had a real doctor and a quack doctor. The quack was easy to get into and all I had to do was tell him what I wanted. I went to him when I had like a sinus infection to get Z-pack, and then if I felt like I had bronchitis or something a little more serious, I'd go to my real doctor. Now I just have the quack. And that quack isn't sticking any needles toward my foot unless he chloroforms my ass first.