Heart Attack ACK ACK ACK! (You oughta know by now…)

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(“It seems such a waste of time.”)

I really *like* this post. (guess I have no choice)

Some of Y’all may have seen this one coming. 

Some  also may have discerned one salient fact  point of my perception of myself:

‘I think I am bulletproof.’ *insert BUD/s here*

Hell! I have always lived my life that way, embracing that one paralyzed fact. I just know I am such:

‘Bulletproof’.

“I think, therefore I am… bullet proof.”

(So sorry, René )

Hey! Just walk away Renee:

Vid Credit: hawkmoon03111951

(How many times have I cheated death? *insert Ronnie here*    *insert Minefield Here*    *insert Shark Fishing  here*     *insert Iraq here*

And on and on…

Yep.

How could anyone get past that and ever even know how fragile even I may be? *insert Shonnie here*

(Smirk) It begs credulity.

Well… I had my Bulletproof Ass handed to me a few days ago.

The consensus around the Camp Fire that is my GF’s workplace (Saint Jude—Lot of smart folks work there—mostly doctors an’ such) is that Lance had ‘experienced’ a minor heart attack. Now ain’t that funny? Ain’t that rich? AAD (“Also a Doctor”—stolen line from Wolfe’s ‘The Right Stuff’Also a doctor. The words the first schmuck said to Chuck Yeager right after he parachuted from one hundred thousand feet and crash landed:

“You look like shit” – misquote, but you get the drift: just look it up and move on…

(I was all gray an’ shit and I had all the symptoms, and my BP was… approaching escape velocity, but… shit! I was just ‘funnin’.)

Ed note: Just received an email from my… doctor… ok, she is not MY doctor, only an old friend. Anyhow, she is a pharm-assist. She says I had a Myocardial infarction. 

“A what?” I had to ask.

“You had a fucking heart attact! Dig it, ASSHOLE?”

“Yeah, I dig. So What?”

And then I invited her to not use profanity on my Blog Page. (she hung up on my dumb ass after that. I cannot imagine why)

My  Grandfather died, at ’55 of a “Myocardial infarction. ” Think I am not scared? Naw! Ain’t.

Ain’t that rich? Been there; done that. No T-Shirt, alas. Nothing to hang on my “I Love Me Wall.”

“He, most likely, has ‘experienced’ a heart attack.” Kinda like I ‘experienced’ ‘Six Flags Amusement Park. Or Four Years in Iraq.  Or a year and a half in Afghanistan, not to mention three years in Sinai, back when nobody had even ever heard of it—now that, dear reader, is sorrow:

“Hey Good –Lookin’, where do you work at?” asked she, The Hot Babe. (The ‘at’ shoulda told me she ‘weren’t’ for me anyhow, but when you’re young, who gives two shits for grammar? I axe you.)

“I work in The Sinai Desert, for the State Department” answered I, lonely guy on R&R, too far from Texas where I did not even need to employ my bullshit.

“Oh… Sorry. I only date guys who work in cool places. Bye!” She said, as she followed on over to the Fraternity Asshole House…(s) Doubtful she found cerebral stimulation there, but what the hell, eh?

***

Yeah, I ‘experienced’ those too. Those were great… experiences.

Point is, my personal health issues notwithstanding: I am back. (for now)

And am back to comment, torment, regale, impale, exhale, exhalt, vent, rant, recant, apologize, criticize, proffer, pro-offer, disclaim, disdain, mock, muse, love, confuse, confer, confide, and certainly collide.

And all that shit above is denied.

Yet…

I have this pain… in my… ass. (and me chest)

More later… assuming I get over myself tonight.

Peace,

Lanc’d

P.S. Let us just call this a ‘Stream of Consent’ Or a ‘Babbling Brook of Mind’.

Vote on it: Get back to me.

-L

DAMN!

I almost forgot the best part of this post:

Hit me like a slow bullet

SADE:

And…

All of you “likers” don’t get the ‘jist’ of the ‘jisters,’ now, do you? I don’t often ask for a lifeline, but…

Honestly now, I feel as if I am living on / my  borrowing time.

(and my bank is broken)

(and if anyone out “There” ever misconstrues that, THAT, as a plead for money, for me, well, fuck, Nay FUCK you!. I was merely communicating my status.

Words Hurt.

I know this now (“Took you long enuff Asshole.”).

I never mean to hurt; I just spew… stuff… outta my mind…

Keep yer ‘symphany.’ And your musical parades for the poor.

Give your money to Palestine… 

Yeah: 

That’s the “Lance” we sorta, love.

Rock on, LM!

As long and as has (he?) been long (and boring) as has this post, I will never delete it.

Why? Not?

Because I love Sade.

That is the simple truth, Ruth.

Or perhaps ‘Truth #2’

But then, those of you who know… know.

It’s my page…

 “Love is a gun.”

23 thoughts on “Heart Attack ACK ACK ACK! (You oughta know by now…)

  1. Wow Lance – behind in my reading, as usual, & didn’t see that one coming . . .
    Take care of yourself my friend . . . I need my kindred spirit on here (ok – yeah that sounded selfish, though that was not my intent!)

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Shit, I just got all lazy and disappeared for a month and a half, and you had to trump me with a heart attack. Well-played sir, well-played…but hey, how’s a bout living a while, you might be the medicine this crazy ass place needs to stay semi-sane. Plus you’re goddamn hilarious. And often right. Or at least convincing. Take care man!!

    Liked by 2 people

  3. Lance, oh, Lance. You’re such a leather-hearted old galoot! There are obviously bucketfuls of people who care about you more than you care about you. I know your one tough SOB, but please take care of yourself so we can all continue to enjoy having you around. You’ve got a lot to say, and I for one would like to continue reading it.
    Be kind to yourself. Be careful.
    Cheers 😉

    Liked by 2 people

    • Wow!
      Such a nice comment.
      Ya know Shelley…. I am a fan. (of years, uh… yours.)
      Cheers, (and mercy bowchops)
      Lanc’d
      P.S. Okay: I might stick around… for a bit longer.
      And by the way… it is ‘you’re’, not ‘your’. (ref: above)
      Hahahahha! I even edit my commenter’s comments. Please forgive me. I am The English Police.

      Like

    • An ‘episode’??
      Surely you are kidding.
      I got this Annie.
      But thanks.
      (P.S. I did sign up for Veteran’s Care: That was my contrib; doan wanna die and leave the GF hangin’….)
      –Lanc’d

      Like

      • tl;dr.

        Just joshin’. At about the same time but much further south it was the firemen lighting the fires. They always did it when returning to the fire station from the market — a fireman would light a cigarette, lay it crosswise over the heads of a pack of matches, close the cover, and fling it out into a field full of dry grass. The cigarette would burn down to the matches, the matches would go up all at once, then they’d get the call reporting the grass fire at about the time they were done putting the groceries away. We rarely had fires in our town so it was about the only way the firemen could get fire pay.

        The only problem: I saw it happen one day and made a game of it. When we’d hear the fire truck leaving the market we’d race out and watch to see if they threw one of their delay-fused incendiary devices into a field, then go find it, smoke the cigarette, and keep the matches for later. The fire truck would cruise by about 45 minutes later with all the firemen looking at the field wondering why it wasn’t burning and, often enough, they’d fling out another one so we’d get a second cigarette and pack of matches out of the deal. 😀

        Liked by 1 person

    • Happier Heathen,
      I post about wor’ly measures; you tell me of dead fire flies. and not burnt out cigs.
      What is a (an) idiot–drunken idiot–to do?
      I ask you.
      ?
      And further more:
      Thank you for wonderful comments, but ya know, I had to just bust yer balls on yer comments…
      Ya know that is must in fun, eh?

      Like

    • Your Fireman comment deserves a serious response.
      Sorry I did not provide one last night (In Respect for The ‘Late Date’ Joan Rivers, yet another of my Favorite Jewish Comics bites the dust), so, Heathen, I will seriously, soberly… respond.
      Tomorrow.
      Cheers,
      Stay Sane,
      (someone has to)
      –Lanc’d

      Like

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