I suppose y’all will find out sooner or later:
In the wee small hours of Friday morning, roughly four hours after the final bites of a magnificent three-hour Thanksgiving dinner, I had what the more prestigious doctors call an “episode”.
(Note to those of you who are so inexplicably fond of me: I am better now.)
I awoke from a fitful doze around 2 a.m., sweating profusely, shivering, breathing with some difficulty, and with the unpleasant sensation of a beachball being inflated under my sternum. I staggered off to the bathroom on rubber legs, flicked on the light, and was horrified by my own pallor. I looked like Uncle Fester after an hour on the Stairmaster. I noted my frighteningly bloodless visage, the increasing pain in my chest, and my rapid fluctuations in temperature, and recognized that there is no way to laugh off that particular grouping.
I decided to summon an ambulance, and took a few unsteady steps toward the phone. To travel from the bathroom to the phone in my apartment, one must pass through the kitchen. As I did so, holding the counter for support, I was inhaling through my nose, because it was somehow easier to breathe that way. I didn’t know why that was, but I now suspect it was Jesus watching over me, because as I passed the refrigerator an aroma hit me like smelling salts, and gave me an idea.
I needed to investigate my new hunch, but I was short of breath and needed to rest. I sat down heavily by my shelf of food books, and laboriously grabbed The Tummy Trilogy for a bit of critical research. I flipped to the chapter on the Nutritionist Convention and read Calvin’s description of the symptoms he suffered after an afternoon at Buster Holmes’. I matched and exceeded them. My worst fears had been confirmed: I wasn’t having a heart attack, I was going into garlic shock.
Following accepted Red Cross procedure for my condition, I immediately ate sixteen Tums, took frequent small sips from a large glass of frozen vodka, and lay on the blessedly cool kitchen floor until I felt better. (Medical Note: “Better” is not the same as “normal”. I felt normal again on Saturday afternoon.)
My friends, I cannot tell you this forcefully enough: After a long layoff, do not embark upon a serious program of eating without consulting your doctor first.
And don’t even get me started about so-called “recreational” garlic use.
The menu that nearly sent me to the ICU:
Oh, and I swept my weekend’s investing: Two Fantasy wins, two pool wins. Life is sweet.
(This week’s Result Foreseen By No One But Stimpy: Oakland 25, Denver 24)