This morning, while waiting on a call from the daytime radiologist, who would give me his take on the cat scan my wife got last night – the night shift radiologist must be second string – and tell us if it was a “spot on her lung,” or some kind of photographic anomaly – we tried to buy a heart attack.  They want to sell us cancer.  Several thoughts revolved through my head.

One thought was, “Great!  What a perfect excuse to go from occasional over-indulger to full time drunk.  What unbelievable quantities of slack I’d be cut.”