Now that this blog has been updated into a semi-monthly bulletin, I am happy to inform you that my buddy--the one with the life-threatening heart attack--is doing just fine. I saw him the other day at an Easter get-together. He was happily taking part in the biscuits and breakfast pizza (it was a sunrise service, which makes me wonder if Jesus would have even bothered getting out of the tomb if He knew he would be subjected to nutrient-deficient breakfast foods. Though I guess he could just turn it all to bread and wine), and apparently he got a girlfriend a month or so back, so that's all good.
The heart attack? Brought on by a buttload of sausage and ice cream, apparently. Although I just had a buttload of chow mein and turkey for dinner, and you don't see me clutching at my chest. Now, my stomach, yeah, a little bit, because dinner sometimes fights back.
Of course, he's kind of a small guy, which makes me wonder if he just isn't used to his food fighting back. He didn't really go into detail about what the doctor said, and I didn't ask, so for all I know, House and his team were using the stethoscope all wrong.
Note: I have never heard or read such obsessive use of the word "butt."
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