Prompts for 7 July ’07


Holy moley, my plastic St. Jude Valve wheezes like it’s a dog ready to
cough up a snail, that reaction to his choresterol sludge. I have
sludge too and have been attempting to attain the Divine Stage of
Reconciliation when I will glide into my doc’s office and tell him
I’ve been trying to meet the standards of the pharmaceutical companies
and have my cholesterol at 100 or so.

But I suspect these pharmaceutical companies are in cahoots, and keep
resetting the bar of aterial perfection higher in order to sell more
heart drugs and keep their pill devotees in a state of deprived of
that o’l lardy feeling. That way the patients lunge at food in the
middle of the night, in a walk through the hollow corridors of Walmart
searching for Twinkies, Susie Q’s, Devil Dogs, and think just this
once, and than add some Chocolate Rocky Road ice cream to smooth the
trip down towards a psyche which assumes gargoyle form, hissing in need.

These old boys in the pharm corps want us to be choosy about our food,
but they know we can’t and they have created lovely little statin
drugs to take at night; drugs promised to say to you, “Hello, I’m your
new miracle of the universe. Take me and you will cease trying to
be perfect on your own. It’s not your fault. Become a fan of
statins. Statins are your friend. Say “yes” to life and arterial
equanimity. Why worry, be happy.”

But, I suspect I am too choosy, to suspicious of the sirene call of
Statins. Still I take them because my doctor will bark at me in
anger, and my choresterol will lump up in a state of inner nerves.

Oh dear, what’s a gal to do?