Good morning and welcome to Summit Up, the world’s only daily column happy to report the most pleasant, and yet at the same time the most traumatizing, doctor’s visit ever.
See, Summit Up Staffer No. 013 had what we in the medical profession (we can say “we” since we used to diagnose people’s mental conditions on bus rides) call a nasty condition. We don’t need to go into detail – this is a family newspaper, you know – but suffice it to say he had stuff where there wasn’t supposed to be stuff.
Now, said staffer’s first mistake was not drinking Utah canyon water or playing with bug-infested, sneezing children (which he did and probably contributed to this malady). No, his mistake was telling a co-worker about it. While you might like to think that those in the noble trade of journalism can keep a secret (especially an embarrassing health one), the Code of Silence and Protecting Sources apparently doesn’t apply when referring to those in the surrounding cubicles.
Anyone looking for a motherly sort of mate, male or female, should stop by the Corporate Suites and start pitching woo. We say this because these people nagged this staffer (OK, we helped, too) into going to the doctor, which brings us to our original point – the best and worst of all doctor visits.
Our staffer was happy to report (and human resources types will smile at this) that the visit was absolutely hassle-free. Yes, this is a doctor’s office we’re talking about. This staffer called late in the day, got a last-minute appointment and to top it all off, everyone was nice and there was only one form to fill out. (Although he did report the nurse asking two strange questions: Do you wear sunscreen and do you wear a seatbelt? Sounds like voodoo medicine to us.)
However, this poor staffer is now feeling a bit, oh, shall we say, less masculine. Again the family newspaper code prevents us from getting into too much detail, but let us simply pass on the advice of this staffer to all his fellow males: Avoid turning 35 and regular doctor visits at all costs, because the doctor won’t even buy you dinner afterward.
That’s probably enough on this topic.
Something a little more high-class for our readers: We got into an argument in the office. Nobody agrees with us that there is really no difference between bikini and naked.
We know our lady friends will disagree. They have to. Otherwise, they’d never be able to go to the beach knowing that we can pretty much see them naked.
Guys, back us up on this. You’d have to have the imagination of a rock, or never have had seen what’s underneath, to not complete that paint-by-numbers.
Maybe we’re phrasing this argument incorrectly. Maybe it’s a question of degree. Maybe we should be asking, at what point in shrinking the dimensions of a bikini does it become negligible? A few years ago, the answer might have been “the square root of thong.” Who knows anymore?
A reader in Scotland really like Tuesday’s bit about place names and how none of their pronunciations make sense.
“Dear Editor, I loved your place names problem. I come to Frisco from Scotland twice a year to ski, and in between times, I get my Summit County fix by reading your paper online! We have a MON-trose over here, but it is simple. What about the area of Glasgow spelled “Milngavie’ and pronounced “Mull-guy’?
“Skiing this year was great. Hope you enjoy the summer. It’s raining here, as usual. Yours, Kate McKenzie, Ayr, Scotland (pronounced as spelled).”
You, too, can send your musings, poetry, mental health diagnoses and letters to Santa to
email@example.com, fax at (970) 668-0755 or just say “vo-ees-ma-eel” on the voicemail at (970) 668-3998, ext 237.
We’re out watching the river flow …
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