'Matter of Laugh or Death,' the award-winning humor column

By Bill Dunn

Interesting observations on this thing we call life

(appearing each week in the Republican-American newspaper, Waterbury, CT)

THE SAD STORY OF A BOY AND HIS DOG

Summer has finally arrived. This is the season of vacations and holidays, picnics and barbecues. For most people this is a time of fun and laughter, a time to enjoy the great outdoors and savor the fare at a classic American cookout.

But for other people, there is no joy this summer. You see, some poor souls were brutalized during the winter months by the scourge of modern medicine. What was thought to be nothing more than a routine physical exam turned into an unexpected horror: being yelled at by the doctor for lousy eating habits.

I know. It happened to me. When I went for my annual checkup I had all my standard excuses ready: Yeah, doc, I know I’m kinda out of shape. Yeah, it’s awfully stressful at work these days. I know I should get more exercise. And yeah, I know I should watch what I eat. No, you’re right, doc, I’m really gonna get serious about it this time. You betcha.

It was exquisite choreography. My doctor and I had perfected the routine over the years. At the conclusion of my checkup, he would write things in my file, shake his head and say, “Tsk, tsk.” Then he would look up over his reading glasses and playfully poke my Poppin’ Fresh Pillsbury Dough Boy belly with his pen and say, “You really need to do something about this. You can’t keep eating like you did when you were 20.”

Then it was my turn. I would put on my most sincere facial expression, nod my head vigorously in agreement, and recite my “Yeah, I’m really gonna get serious this time” lines. Then we would smile, shake hands, and say in unison, “See you next year.”

It was all so perfect. The doctor was essentially giving me a clean bill of health, and yet doing his duty to warn me about my atrocious eating habits. And I played my part well, pretending to take his warning seriously.

But everything changed during my most recent physical exam. My doctor did not stick to the script. He didn’t say, “Tsk, tsk.” He didn’t playfully poke my belly. He didn’t smile and shake my hand. He was, in fact, very rude. He pulled out color photos of clogged arteries. He asked me uncomfortable questions like, “Do you want to live to see your grandchildren?”

And worst of all, he ordered me to change my diet. The object of his wrath was my most favorite food in the whole world, the hot dog. As I drove home from the doctor’s office, I sadly looked up at the clouds and, with apologies to Judy Garland, started singing this song, to the tune of “Over the Rainbow”:

Somewhere on a new gas grill
Sizz-lin’ hot
There’s a dog that I dreamed of
Chili and cheese on top

Somewhere near that new gas grill
I am blue
My favorite food is off limits
I can’t believe it’s true

The doctor said, “You’re gonna die
Your eating habits make me cry
Don’t you see?

“Those hot dogs are made out of junk
Your arteries are filled with gunk
They are not health-y”

Somewhere near that new gas grill
Salad green
Waits for me to start eating
But I would rather scream

The hot dog is my favorite food
It puts me in a happy mood
Every time

But all of that is now long gone
And I am sad, my face forlorn
I can’t stop cry-in’

Somewhere by a new gas grill
People smile
They are eating some foot-longs
Why then, oh why can’t I?

If other people do not die
While eating hot dogs
Why, oh why can’t I?

©2003