When driving home from a West Texas A&M flogging over Tarleton State, 51-0, I get hit with an attack. My eyes basically begin to shut while I'm doing about 65 MPH up I-27 in thick traffic. I'm not really sure how we made it home. Oh, West Texas A&M hosts Central Washington in the first round of the Division II playoffs next week. WT's number nine in the country. Not too shabby. Only in West Texas is it necessary to clarify in your "Tailgating Guidelines" that ATVs, dirt bikes and firearms are prohibited. I imagine there's many other things that are prohibited (like helicopter stunts, juggling flaming bowling pins), but interestingly enough, these were the only things strictly mentioned.
Once we get home, my lovely wife decides that I'm going to a doctor, but reluctant to do it that night because the Texas Tech Red Raiders were scheduled to bust out a whooping on the Oklahoma State Cowboys, the last place I wanted to be was at the doctor. I won that one.
In the morning, under excrutiating pain at this point, my lovely wife drives me to a "Urgent Care" which, oddly, these places usually fail to provide anything urgently or any act that could be considered as care. When we arrive, my lovely wife, who just successfully battled the same ailment with doses of a steroid and some eyedrops prescribed from her doctor, asserts to everyone that she knows what I need because she had the same symptoms and was successfully treated just weeks earlier. Pretty simple game plan, I believe.
You would've thought we were asking to get prescribed heroin. It's like everyone was looking at us like, "Eh, I don't know. Maybe I can offer a second opinion." My wife would say:
Look, I'm telling you what he needs because I just recently had the same thing happen to me and my opthamologist prescribed Pretnisone and some eyedrops. I took both for three days and, miraculously, I was cured by taking the medication prescribed to me.
"Eh, despite your testimony, ma'am. I'm going to have suggest something else. It's a horse tranquilizer and hourly punches to the groin."
We ended up leaving with a prescription as requested by my lovely wife who now moonlights as a urgent care doctor. She's really good. On the recommendation of the "physician" (and only on the recommendation of the physician because you know my ass would never do so), we went to Wal-Mart to get our prescriptions filled for $4 a piece (for a total of $8). Pretty chancy, I felt. From a guy who vows to never buy anything that's living, once lived or supposed to live from Wal-Mart, here I am now trusting them with my health. We walk in and I mistaken the arcade for the pharmacy.
Not alot to celebrate because, let's face it, Mondays suck. I'll keep you posted on the side effects of the steroids I'm on. Right now, I'm watching a mouse eating scraps in a dumpster fifteen miles away on a dirt road. Yeah, baby, Greatest American Hero style.