The surest way to make a poop happen is to blog about it. As soon as I got home from work, I was squirming. I called the doctor’s office to make sure they were open late enough for me to get it there, and the stars all lined up. And in spite of the fact that I spent 5 years cleaning outhouses, that was one of the most disgusting things I’ve ever had to do. They almost got a vomit sample along with the other stuff.
I took the goods over to the doctor’s office. The little vials were packaged inside a ziploc bag inside a Fred Meyer grocery sack. Inside another Fred Meyer grocery sack. I put them in the back of the truck for the ride over–Mr. Haneky is not my co-pilot.
(Do yourself an enormous favor and don’t scroll too far down a Google image search for Mr. Hankey. There are some very disturbed amateur sculptors out there.)
And wouldn’t you know, there was a dude at the front counter of my doctor’s office. There I was, holding a sack of shit, and I had to explain to him that I was a patient of Dr. X and she’d requested I get a sample and bring it in. And here it was. He quit smiling. I wanted to apologize, but then I told myself I wasn’t to blame for his bad career decisions.
On the way home, I glanced over at the passenger seat, and there was another Fred Meyer bag sitting there. I was pretty sure it was the bag I had my leftover container from lunch in, but you can bet your sweet ass that I double-checked. Wouldn’t that have been sad? The lab got a few crumbs of JV’s uneated Fuddrucker’s chicken sandwich, and Mr. Vox would have had a nasty surprise when he went to load my dishes into the washer.