I had to get a glucose test to keep my insurance from going up. Not sure if this is the fault of insurance companies, Obamacare, failure of tort reform laws being passed, greedy CEO’s, or whatever the reason of the day is, but at least I don’t have to be genetically tested like in Gattica yet. But that’s probably coming soon.
I made an appointment online and realized I had to fast for nine hours. Normally, not an issue, but there is something in humans that makes you want to do whatever you’re not supposed to, like curse in church, drink at work, etc. Just me? Moving on. I got there and the place was completely packed with WT’s. I haven’t seen that many Starter jackets in one room since the Colony Square Mall in Zanesville in 1993. I went up to the clipboard and thankfully, saw I was only one with an appointment. Yes! The sign says appointments first.
They then proceeded to ignore this sign and let every single person ahead of me. The hunger was bad, the conversations were worse. One guy wearing sweat pants looked at the clock, then got up and left. You’re wearing sweat pants to a drug screen/blood test, my friend. You have NOWHERE more important to be. Trust me. I then stared at two girls talking about not working as they played games on their iPhone 5’s. Of course.
Finally, the room was empty. The lady stuck her head out the window, looking at the empty room and me. “Jiminez?” I said, “Coen.” She looked down, then up. “Davidson?” Son of a bitch. “Chris. Chris Coen.” She looked down, then up. “Smith?” I peered back into her soulless eyes. She looked down, then up. “Coen?” “Yes, that’s me.” “Come on back!” I’m sorry, I have to cancel. There’s a sale on sweat pants down the street.