Clinical report

Clinic today. A single bugle blurts out an abbreviated victory blat muffled and collared by the hustle and bustle of a dozen professionals tending furiously to twice as many often vocally challenged and universally physically diminished souls ravaged by the relentlessly progressive Satan disease, Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis.

      All of my tests today, including blood pressure, blow test, weight, swallowing, chewing, breathing, occupational therapist evaluation (her words "wow! Amazing!), physical therapist evaluation (her words "excellent definition in your legs! Wow! You're doing something right! ), speech therapist, neurologist (even he was surprised at my improvement over the last three months).

      I entered the clinic with my tricked out Permobil, lights Blazing Blue, beclothed be me in Venice Beach shorts, Nike flip flops, an optic orange Hawaiian shirt, a peace symbol dangling from leather shoelace encircling my neck, hair shoulder length and platinum blond, Oakley shades hooking a button, spec's on my nose, armpits sweet with Old Spice, a pinch of unlabeled mystery cologne splashed under my heavily bearded chin, manicured nails (finger and toe), Crest breath, of course, and a take no prisoners attitude!

     Amy followed me with the bugle. It turns out she can't play a lick. I don't know why she brought it. She and her inability to blow is the real reason the victory blurt failed. It sounded more like a fart, which made all the ALSers uncomfortable except for me, because I knew Amy did it.

      Pizza Hut delivery is here, I need to celebrate!