[2109] in Humor
CLASSIC DAVE HUMOR: CAT scan birthday
daemon@ATHENA.MIT.EDU (abennett@MIT.EDU)
Wed Jun 11 14:29:03 1997
From: <abennett@MIT.EDU>
To: humor@MIT.EDU
Date: Wed, 11 Jun 1997 14:24:01 EDT
Date: Mon, 09 Jun 1997 12:41:41 -0700
From: Connie Kleinjans <connie@interserve.com>
SON CELEBRATES 12th BIRTHDAY WITH HELIUM, DONALD DUCK AND HOSPITAL STAFF
DAVE BARRY
If you're planning a party for your 12-year-old child, my main piece
of advice is: Allow plenty of time for the CAT scan.
I learned this important parenting lesson recently when my son, Rob,
decided he wanted to celebrate his 12th birthday by holding a dance
party. So we rented a hall used for exercise classes and hired a disc
jockey. (``I won't play anything with dirty words,'' the disc jockey
assured us. ``Unless of course you WANT me to.'')
Our plan was to decorate the hall with crepe streamers and helium-
filled balloons, so several hours before the party, we went to a store
that rented helium tanks. The man asked us whether we needed a small,
medium or large tank.
``Large,'' said Rob instantly.
BONUS TIP FOR PARENTS: Never allow your child to make a decision
regarding helium-tank size.
We ended up staggering out to the car with a helium tank the size of
a Polaris missile, but heavier. It was the same size tank that the
Goodyear company rents to refill the blimp. We lugged this into the
dance hall, where Beth and I began putting up streamers while Rob and a
friend set about the task of not filling balloons with helium.
The reason they were not doing this, of course, is that they were too
busy doing what young people always do when they get hold of helium;
namely, inhaling it and then talking in Donald Duck voices. What fun! It
was such fun that Rob did it a number of times in a row. The problem was
that helium does not contain any oxygen, which is one of the minimum
daily nutritional requirements recommended by the American Medical
Association for growing children.
Parenthood is not unlike the Space Mountain ride at Disney World, in
the sense that both experiences involve zooming along in a carefree
manner, then suddenly having your stomach get collapsed like a stomped-
on Dixie cup by violent, unexpected, high-speed turns. One minute Beth
and I were putting up streamers while our child was talking like Donald
Duck; the next minute he had keeled over, taking care to whonk his head
against the concrete wall on the way down, and was on the floor,
forehead bleeding, body twitching spasmodically in what we later found
out is called an ``anoxic seizure.'' Yes sir! This was shaping up as the
most exciting birthday party EVER, topping even the one wherein we
filled the wading pool with Jell-O!
Rob quickly regained consciousness and appeared to be thinking
clearly (``I'm gonna MISS MY PARTY!''). Beth and I agreed that, since it
was too late to tell the party guests not to come, she'd stay at the
dance hall. I took Rob to the hospital emergency room, where a nice
medical person assured me that children are always injuring themselves
immediately before carefully planned family events, and that many
families traditionally celebrate all their important occasions right
there in the emergency room.
Another nice medical person informed me that Rob needed a CAT scan
and a plastic surgeon to sew up his forehead gash, and that these
things, plus the paperwork, could easily take four or five hours. So I
explained that this was a Medical Emergency, meaning that in one hour,
Beth would be a lone 45-year-old woman in a darkened hall containing 10
large pizzas, a disc jockey born in 1971 and 40 hormonally crazed 12-
year-olds.
Realizing the extreme medical seriousness of this situation, the
Emergency Room crew swung into action, and within minutes Rob was
strapped into the CAT-scan machine, a device that looks like it was
designed to beam people to the Planet Foombar (provided they have
medical insurance). A medical person named (really) Dr. Gallow used this
machine to look inside Rob's skull. He let me see the pictures.
``Hey, Rob!'' I said. ``It turns out you have a brain!''
``Shut up, Dad,'' he said, from inside the CAT-scan machine.
I don't know where he gets this flippant attitude.
Anyway, the CAT scan was negative, meaning, in layperson's terms,
positive, so it was time for the plastic surgeon to sew up Rob's
forehead. This turned out to be a simple procedure, although the next
time Rob needs it, I intend to request total anesthesia for myself.
We raced back to the dance hall and got there just as the party
started. A sympathetic exercise class had helped Beth finish decorating
the hall, and it looked great, just like the Junior Prom, with enough
reserve helium to fill approximately 375 million more balloons should we
need them. Rob's friends all gathered around to hear what happened and
admire his injury and the cool bloodstains on his shirt. The DJ turned
his amplifier volume knob to ``KILL ZONE'' and started playing the kind
of music that young people like today, meaning, in layperson's terms,
ugly.
After a while Beth said: ``You know, the DJ SAID he'd play some
oldies.
Then we both voiced the same chilling thought: ``Maybe these ARE the
oldies.''
But the kids liked the music; some of the boys even stopped punching
each other and DANCED WITH GIRLS. Beth and I sat in the next room,
watching the kids, marveling at their energy, pondering the fact that
Rob was a year older.
Whereas WE had picked up at least five years apiece.
(C) 1992 THE MIAMI HERALD
DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC.
