Oliver ~ Destroyer of Worlds

Oliver
You wouldn't think a simple medium sized dog could cause more trouble to　a family than　medium sized teenagers, but you've likely never met Oliver the dog.
My good friend ended up with a cute Four　month　old mixed breed puppy to fill the void of not having a family pet. To describe what breed of dog Oliver is　would　not be easy. My best uneducated guess would be part Basset hound, part Chupacabra with a dash of Cthulhu genetics for disposition.
His medium size is not from his genetics however. Bone structure, with limb length being the most　telltale　sign, points to what should be considered a small breed dog. His personal table manners and eating　habits　have combined to raise his Body Mass Index to a level not supported by the description "Small"  Oliver should be shaped like a hot-dog. Instead, I would say he's shaped more like a double cheeseburger. But Oliver seems otherwise healthy and happy. What more can you ask?
Like all beings, we each have a dark side. A struggle we all face from time to time. My dark side is holding on to grudges and not forgiving people that I feel wronged me. I can admit it, and I don't really keep it a secret. I'll continue to work on it and maybe conquer it someday. I think Oliver's dark side is his inability to care what he eats. His family feeds him the prescribed portions of a highly rated name-brand dog food. Oliver the dog doesn't seem satisfied with that. They noticed early on, like any puppy, he would chew on things. Not only chew toys, but pretty much anything that he could open his mouth and　get hold of　was fair game to him.
Just chewing on things isn't really an issue that should highly concern anyone. Soon after his family noticed the constant chewing, household items began to disappear. Sometimes things would completely disappear and sometimes remnants would remain. Oliver's appetite caused him to chew up and then devour basically anything left unattended. He is also an accomplished dinner table　ninja.　If a morsel of food is accidentally dropped from the table, it rarely touches the floor before it is "rescued" by the silent food warrior. I've personally witnessed this.  I think when a dog is that good at cleaning the floors it should be called "barkcuuming"
The following is a documented list of items Oliver actually ate. By "ate", I mean chewed, swallowed, partially digested and passed.
Any piece of paper left on the floor (size doesn't matter)
Boxes of Tic Tacs can't be put high enough to avoid his reach, but dog-breath isn't a problem now.
Parts of appliance cords. We assume he somehow unplugged them first.
All but the nose-pad of a pair of expensive and necessary prescription eyeglasses.
And entire cell phone, including the protective cover.
Fast food wrappers left in the car.
A plastic glass containing 7-up was consumed in less than a minute. No liquid was found in the area.
A　leather　billfold　with ID, credit cards and cash. Although the family originally thought the billfold was misplaced, they later found, um,　evidence.

Socks, shoes, a half pair of jeans, digital camera, family picture hanging several feet from the floor, a hand towel, small garbage can, dresser drawer handles, homework of course,　golfballs, tennis balls, baseballs, baseball glove, mitten, scarf and Christmas　tree ornaments are all victims of Oliver: The destroyer of worlds.  It's probably a good thing he has a short tail.

A Kiss from Above

By 2005, I had attended 27 straight State "A" High School wrestling tournaments. Whether it's just my own personality or an addiction, I love the energy and feel of State tournaments, no matter the sport. Wrestling just happens to be my favorite. Each venue has its own positive and negative traits. By far my least favorite place to attend is the Sioux Falls Arena. They practically strip-search you to make sure you aren't bringing in any contraband of food, drink, gum, tic-tacs or the like. Nothing is allowed inside the arena that the precious cash-cow of concessions can provide at an astronomically high price. I'm not kidding. They actually shut off the water supply to the public fountains located all over the arena. If you need a little sip of water for your dry mouth after yelling for your team, you are going to pay $7.50 for a little bottle of water they bought in bulk for 12.5 cents each. I've seen signs in the bathrooms by the sinks stating that it was not potable water flowing from the faucets. I can wash my hands with it, but not drink it? It might work as a deterrent for some, but even I'm not that gullible.
In contrast, Rapid City is much nicer to attend as a spectator. It seems much easier to go in and out without hassle. They have much lower prices on food and drink, and an overall warmer, friendly atmosphere. Even with reserved seating, which is in the balcony, you can still go to the main floor and get close to the mat to cheer on a wrestler. In Sioux Falls you would likely be tazered by security for attempting to get near the main floor. It's an exciting thing to be that close to the action. Although, there was one time when I wish I wasn't allowed mat-side.
That year I took my daughter Kristin and son Bobby along. I don't remember what Bobby wore that first day, but I will never as long as I live forget what Kristin was wearing. She wore blue jeans and a grey hoodie. As soon as we got inside, the kids found their people and went their separate ways. I hooked up with my buddy Rob and we immediately went into expert fan mode. The referee's, coaches and athletes always seem to need our expert advice and one point or another.
At one point during the first session we moved to the far north mat because a Winner kid was getting ready to wrestle there. Rob and I walked as close to the mat as we could for better viewing. As we approached, I noticed Kristin right in front of me. She was holding a digital camera and was videoing the match that was just finishing. I thought, "She has a crush on a wrestler from another town and borrowed a camera to get pictures. I'm going to embarrass her and let her know that I caught her"
I snuck up behind her and peeked over her shoulder for a bit. She didn't notice. So I just leaned over from behind and planted a big ol' daddy kiss on the top of her head. I made a huge *MMMMMMSMOUCH sound as I did it too.
She turned around, but it wasn't Kristin. The blood flow to my face was instant. I was in shock at first and then said, "Oh God, I thought you were my daughter, I'm sooo sorry. Oh my, you look just like her from behind. No, I mean..."
I looked over at Rob, whose face was also red from laughing so hard, then back to the girl. She just rolled her eyes, turned around and didn't say a thing. I quickly left the building and ran to the adjacent motel. I changed clothes, put contacts in and donned a baseball cap as to not be identified by what I was sure would be a platoon of police waiting for me at the arena.
Apparently, there was a student manager from Milbank with the exact same hair, height, hoodie and jeans as Kristin. Milbank was nice enough to place their fan section right next to Winner's the entire time. Every hour or so, I would see that girl talking to someone and pointing at me. I'm sure they had quite a nickname for me by the end of the tournament.

Marks Cold Foot

Another goose hunting season is upon us! It's not a particularly demanding sport. Over the years I've mastered the art of lazy goose hunting. Most hunters scout, set up decoy spreads, wake up at 3:00am and other such nonsense. I simply sit behind a tree and wait for geese to fly over with no particular concern of success. It wasn't always that way. My first few years of hunting geese were a study in lumpishness. I remember an instance of hunting futility many years ago when one of my hunting buddies and I had quite a laugh at another buddy's expense.
First, there is Jerry. He is a rather diminuative guy at barely Five foot tall. His main pleasure in life is making fun of people. What he lacks in size he can easily make up in insults. I'm 5'8" and back then I weighed a good 250 pounds. Then, there is Mark. He is 7'1" or as he likes to say, "Six foot-Thriteen inches" He's the nicest guy you will ever meet, but not maybe the most motivated person around. So basically, our group was composed of a grizzly bear, the Jolly Green Giant and Sprout.
If success is measured by hours spent hunting, then we were the most successful group in history. If success is measured by how many geese are taken per season, then not so much. First, Jerry refused to remove his blaze orange stocking cap for two seasons. He was convinced that all non-human animals are colorblind and would not notice his big orange head. Mark's size didn't exactly make him ergonomic when it came to hiding in blinds we made out of tumbleweeds. Usually, Marks white, size 18 sneaker was sticking out of the blind and tipping off the flock above to our presence. Eventually, Jerry misplaced his orange hat and our success began to improve. I want to go on record as saying there is no hard evidence connecting me with the disappearance of that hat. Then, when Mark found a pair of brown boots that fit him, our success increased even more. But, that didn't happen until after the infamous "cold-foot" incident.

It was a particularly cold day. We spent most of the morning driving around. We would see a flock of geese come off the lake and try to anticipate their flight path. Jerry would let us out of the car to jump in the ditch and wait for the geese to fly over. It wasn't working. Every five minutes a new flock would rise off the lake. Every five minutes we would jump in the car and go to another ditch to watch the geese fly somewhere other than where we were. It's just the way we did it back then. Brilliant!
Jerry had a 1979 Monte Carlo. It was a two-door car and no one wanted to sit in back. It was too difficult to get in and out of quickly.
Using standard "shotgun" rules, I always got the front seat. Mark, all seven foot of him, would have to navigate the lone passenger side door and folding front seat in order to get in back. His feet were understandably cold that day. Mark had his basketball shoes again. They looked warm to me. Maybe it was just the size that fooled me.
Mark's incessant complaining about his frozen feet was becoming unbearable. It was nearly impossible to enjoy my hot chocolate and music on the radio with Mark back there belly-aching about his stupid feet, and how Jerry should turn up the heater, and how he should get to sit in front, and how we should share the hot chocolate with him and what not. Without warning there was a short period of silence. Just as I was beginning to enjoy it, I heard what I thought was Mark reacting to an attack by an animal that had stowed away in the car without us knowing. My first thought was, "Is Mark dying?" This wouldn't be good if he was. Something like that could ruin the whole hunting trip.
"STOP THE CAR!, STOP THE CAR! I CAN'T FEEL MY FOOT!!!", Mark yelled. Jerry stopped the car. Mark jumped out and was clumsily hopping around on one leg as if that would get warm blood back into his now numb foot.
When Jerry and I finally composed ourselves enough to quit laughing, we noticed Mark was not laughing at all.

This is the type of thing that Jerry loves. In the future he will always have a comeback for anything that Mark says. He has used the "Stop the car" quote many times in many situations to embarrass Mark. It was funny at the time it happened and I can't fully explain why. Decades later, I still wonder what "STOPPING THE CAR" has to do with not feeling your foot. I guess it will just remain one of those mysteries that I can't understand. In fact as I grow older, I am often reminded the more you understand the world around you, the less pleasant it can appear. Unless, you have something to look forward to. In my case, another goose hunting season with Jerry and Mark.

She Screamed for Icecream

One bad decision can lead to another and amplify it's impact exponentially when done with my kind of precision. This can make certain situations more memorable than others. Take for instance my recent trip to the convenience store to pick up my fresh made pizza order. I arrived long before the pizza was done, as this is my normal mode of operation. I was patiently standing by for any sign of the delicious bacon-cheeseburger pizza that would begin to peek out of the 503 degree conveyer oven. I believe I was the only customer in the store at the time.
Fate changes with every heartbeat, blink or decision we make like the wind changes speed and direction for reasons most of us don't understand. I wasn't thinking about fate or repercussions or anything but pizza when the young father and his two children came into the store that night. I noticed the father of the two precious youngsters head directly to the men's room, leaving the two kids somewhat unattended. The boy was about seven or eight years old. He went directly to the gum/baseball card area and was quickly entranced within it's power. The little girl was five. She had to be five. There is a certain look all five year olds have. It is unmistakable, undeniable and inarguable. She was five. Probably bored from riding in a car for some time, the little girl was peering upward and focusing on nothing in particular when she turned to walk up the same aisle as me. I was facing the goodie machines. You know, the soda fountain, freezy machine, coffee pots and oh yes, the ice-cream machine.
She strolled along the aisle carefree and humming an unpublished concerto. But, all that changed as she neared me. She looked to her right and instantly radar locked on the ice-cream machine. I wondered for a moment what the attraction was. As I looked closer at the machine, the answer became quite clear. A smile came to me as I noticed there was a two to three inch ice cream stalactite hanging from the dispenser nozzle. With little hesitation she reached out to obtain the small hanging treat. At the precise moment her index finger made contact with the ice cream, the compressor that runs the cooling system of the machine kicked on with a violent roar. She reacted with a quick tensing and small jump back. Thinking she may be responsible for breaking something or setting off some type of ice-cream machine theft alarm, she snapped her head to the left, looked directly at me with eyes wide and jaw dropped. I could have looked away and left well enough alone, but no....not me. I looked at her, then at the machine, then back at her and said in an authoritative and accusing tone, "What did you do?"
See, I think I'm a really funny guy. That was supposed to be a really funny thing. I simply failed to consider my audience. The next few seconds were those kind where you wish you had a rewind button to hit.  First, there was a small inward breath, then a large lung filling gasp followed by a second of silence. A moment like that can seem to last a long time when you know the next thing that happens will be very, very bad.
At first I thought the sound I heard was an ambulance siren at full screech. Unfortunately, it was not. During mid-scream, I became aware that I was alone in an aisle with a young girl screaming her head off within five feet of me. I also knew it probably wouldn't look good to any amateur child protection advocates that may have just stumbled into the store. Not knowing what to do, I simply ran. Not perhaps the best quick decision I've made in my life. As it turns out, there just isn't any law against being stupid or being a jerk to a little kid. I'd like to see it stay that way for the next "funny thing" I decide to do.

Oklahoma Rocks

A favorite Mark Twain quote of mine is: “I can remember everything from my childhood, whether it happened or not”

Being a ten-year old boy isn't a hard job. Being the 14 year-old brother of a ten-year old boy, must be measurably more difficult.

When I was a kid (A smaller kid, as the jury is still out on my exact maturity level) my family spent several summers in Oklahoma where my father grew up by Grand Lake in the Northeast part of the state. My Grandfather and Great Aunt lived on opposite sides the lake. I spent ample time at both places, occasionally annoying all in attendance. Behind my Great Aunt's house, was a dark mysterious forest. My brother and I built a fort in that forest. We cut a narrow path where we eventually built the fort. Then, a small circle of ground was cleared where we hold court for the faithful subjects of our new kingdom, like a toad or gopher that happened by. We found an old crate for a table and large rocks for chairs. I'm guessing my brother did most if not all of the work, but since he lives 1300 miles away I'll take the credit for now.

The sun was getting low when we started our walk toward the fort that day. We would usually race each other to the fort from the road. With the path only big enough for one person, whoever made it to the opening first would win. That was always my brother. This time as we were walking down the road to the entrance, I had another one of my great ideas. I was just a step or two ahead of him when I yelled, “Race ya!” A few quick steps later and I was nearing the entrance still slightly ahead of him. With a precision stiff-arm technique he received a little nudge so I could maintain my advantage as I got to the opening. Another infamous quick right turn and I was on the path. I reached the fort first and my chest swelled in victory. I looked around to see if my brother was close behind. He wasn't. I strained my eyes to look back up the trail, but did not see him. Was he lying in wait to ambush me? Did I knock him over when I nudged him and cause him to fall or something?

Crack!!! Something hit a tree-branch nearby. Something kind of big. “Steve?”, I asked. Nothing. I tried again, but silence was my answer. I started to go back up the trail.

Thunk! There was a micro-moment of realizing I ran into something and then blackness. I was knocked out cold! When I awoke it was completely dark out. I could see stars though the trees as well as right in front of my eyes. How long was I out? One, maybe Two, hours? I don't know. I stumbled back to the house in darkness. Several people were chatting and laughing and such around the fire pit. I made it to the patio where everyone was and it got really quiet. Suddenly a couple screams cried out, like I was an alien or something. My Mom ran up and grabbed me and hauled me into the bathroom. The side of my face was covered with blood and I didn't even know it. She sat me up on the edge of the sink to clean me off. The biggest scream of the night was when I looked to my left and saw my face in the mirror. It was covered with black, dried-up blood and some new red glistening stuff just beginning to stream down. The screamer of course was me!

The first loud noise I heard in the trees was a rock hitting a tree near me that my brother had thrown. The “thunk” was not a tree branch hitting my forehead it was good sized rock, also thrown by my brother. A remarkable shot through the trees to say the least. He saw me drop like a sack of steam. After a quick inspection of my limp body, he decided that he had killed me. Knowing they would find the body sooner or later, he just went back to the house and played it cool. Since I was generally the type of kid no one minded not having around at times, I wasn't noticed as missing for all this time. I had no idea what had happened to me, my brother could have gotten away with it had he just been quiet. But, he 'fessed up to what he had done. That made a world of difference to me, knowing that I wasn't the one in trouble for once.

Nose for Trouble

My favorite year of grade school was without a doubt third grade. It wasn't the kids in the class or the fact that my grades were a little better, it was my teacher. Plain and simple, I loved my teacher.
In my view Mrs. Peters was to a third grade boy what Michael Jordan was to basketball. I tried every way an Eight year old could to gain favor from her. The only problem, most other kids in the class had the same idea. I was going to have to impress her in a big way to win her over. In the spring of the year I did just that. I just wish she had been in school that day to see it. In fact, had she been in school that day, my impressive display of mayhem would never have happened.
I don't remember the reason Mrs. Peters was gone that day. We had a substitute teacher by the name of Miss Priss, I think.
Our classroom was under the bleachers on the north side of the old middle school gym. We entered the building by prying open one of two windowless fire containment doors. They were built to contain fires as well as children. It makes perfect sense, now.
After entering the building, there is a small step down to the hallway where one would take a quick right-turn past two very thick, plate-glass doors. Those doors were always propped open by those little door-stopper wedgie things. Once past the doors, you simply follow the hallway down to the classroom where Mrs. Peters smiling face would be there to greet you.
On this fateful day I actually raced several other kids to be the first one in the room from recess. I have no idea why.
For the entire school year, the glass doors were open. Apparently, Miss Priss thought the glass doors should be closed that day during recess, so as not to get a chill on her already sub-temperature body.
It was a bright and sunny day. The kind of day that when you go into a building after being outside, the single 12.5 watt light bulb in the hall just doesn't seem to help a whole lot.


In near darkness I hit the step, turned right down the hall and CRASH!!! I thought the sound was the building collapsing in front of me. I had run directly into the one of the plate glass doors and shattered it into 16.9 trillion pieces.
I was far enough ahead of the next kid that I was sure that I could run and hide and no one would know who did it. As I turned to begin my strategic retreat, I saw something hitting the floor several feet in front of me. An arc of blood matching the turn of my head. "Hmmm... that's strange" I thought, "I wonder who's blood that is?"
Without feeling it, a shard of 3/8 inch thick glass had nipped the bridge of my nose and nearly cut it off my face.
A girl that had just entered the door behind me, let out what I would best describe as a "yelsp" (half yelp, half gasp). The look on her face was the same look she had eight years later at goat-man bridge. But that story is for a future column.
Instinctively knowing I may need help, I bolted down the hall towards the classroom. Miss Priss came out of the room to see what the commotion was, she spotted me and also let out a yelsp of her own. I got about halfway down the hall and just folded like a narcoleptic dog having an episode while on the run.
I remember someone holding a wad of those brown paper towels you get in school bathrooms on my nose. I was at the ER shortly after.

Well, my nose took 90 sutures to repair and I did get the rest of the school day off. When Mrs. Peters returned to class, she indicated that she really didn't think it was such a good idea for me to be getting into trouble like that without her being there to oversee it.

Walk of Shame at the Clinic

Last spring, after a couple of years of little to no pain following the previously whined about spinal injection that I miraculously survived, I began experiencing a few symptoms of my pet bulged-disc again. From time to time I used the horrifying possibility of pain re-occurrence to remove myself from physical work by claiming that "taking it easy" would be the prudent thing to do as to not risk further injury by vacuuming, washing windows or other dangerous activities.

The symptoms became present to the point I felt the need to repeatedly tell my friends in the health care industry all about it. I was surprised at how fast my buddy Mike secured another MRI appointment for me. Apparently, he had enough of me whining about it and used his connections to expedite my case. As appreciative as I was for his effort, there was still the fact that getting me into an MRI machine was going to be a task Hercules himself may have declined.

I received a phone call from the same facility that I had my first MRI to verify the appointment date and go over some important details, like how they plan to actually complete the MRI knowing of my Claustrophobia and unhealthy if not irrational fear of the machine itself. The nurse on the phone told me to see my family doctor and ask for medication X as it is known as the "I don't give a hoot" drug and I should be able to take that and make it through the MRI uneventfully. I complied. 

I took the medication as prescribed and shortly before it was time to go into the MRI studio, it had kicked in and in full force. I'm not used to altering my mind with chemicals, but this one for lack of better words made me feel dumb(er). It wasn't the normal or expected effect. But, I'm not the normal patient they expected either.  I figured analyzing my thoughts and feelings would be a good idea at that time. I couldn't control the strange feeling or my thoughts at all and it went downhill from there.

The imaging techs went through the motions of putting me on the table, wrapping me tightly in a cocoon of hot blankets, fitting me with large cranium covering headphones, putting on very uncomfortable feeling socks and applying a sleeping mask to my face so I wouldn't open my eyes and see how trapped inside this tiny area I actually was. All that prep-work didn't help my claustrophobia at all. Combine that with the fact that the medication was having opposite intended results and it's not hard to describe what happened next. I couldn't have felt more uncomfortable in my own skin if I was in a dark coffin with my own lifeless body lying on top of me. The test never began. 

My friend Mike had taken time out of his day to personally drive me to the imaging center to make sure I wouldn't try to escape, only to see me walk out of the MRI unit in shame.  The following picture somewhat accurately depicts what he saw.

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This won't hurt a bit..... just relax

Previously, I wrote about my first MRI and the aftermath. Not being a candidate for what boils down to a simple same-day procedure to fix a bulged disc, made me realize I may just be imagining my pain to be worse than it was. I've never been a real fan of pain and I commonly find it beneficial to use any level of pain as a way to get sympathy or get out of doing things I don't want to.

The surgeon that so comically denied me the procedure I expected suggested a spinal injection which he claimed is highly successful for pansies like me. If you haven't experienced the pleasure of this type of injection, the follow is a firsthand description of what you may expect during it, from my point of view of course.

After checking in with the receptionist, I was ceremoniously escorted to a ready room. There was a TV, recliner and a very nice nurse taking my medical history. So far, so good. As time for the injection approached my nerves began to fray just a little due to the unknown variables of the adventure ahead. A pair of health professionals herded me to the injection room like a lamb where I was turned over to a team of masochistic lions wearing gowns and masks. Their warm greeting almost seemed genuine. It actually was. They were very nice, but that hardly fits into the story at this point.

Before I continue, I'd like qualify that my medical knowledge and terminology is only composed of what I gleaned from two episodes of ER 20 years ago. So either laugh with me or laugh at me. Either is perfectly acceptable.

Once I was lying face down on the table and positioned for the injection, an ice-cold application of reddish-brown liquid was applied generously to my lower back area. That wasn't unpleasant at all compared to the initial "stick" of the needle. It always cracks me up when they say: "You might feel a little pressure" when given an injection. What they really mean is, "hold on to something, this is going to suck"

My understanding of what happens during this procedure is they use an x-ray machine to help the Dr. guide the #2 pencil-sized needle into my spine and find a little area to squirt stuff. They squirt a lot of stuff apparently because the pressure built to the point that I was sure he was literally sawing my body in half, starting between my 4th and 5th lumbar vertebra. This part of it supposedly makes room for the medicine they put in next. Let me tell ya, when that happens I found a whole new meaning of screaming like a little girl. The pressure was so intense for so long I can't believe I didn't pass out. Finally, the Dr. announced that the procedure was over and I was free to quit whimpering.

The injection worked and I was mostly pain free for a couple of years. Thank goodness I listened to my two friends Mike and Lori, that work at that facility and talked me into going through with it. It wouldn't be the last time they were involved in my care and certainly not the weirdest. 

MRI's and Manly Men

As a life long over-analyzer you would think I should have everything figured out by this time in life. It simply isn't the case. In fact nothing could be further from the truth. Take for instance my failures at the Imaging Center where I have been scheduled to have MRI's for a slightly bulged disc in my lower back. This was in hopes that a surgeon could perform a simple procedure to fix it. Microdiscetomy is the actual term. I hate to use words like that however, because people might think I'm smarter than I really am. Living up to that reputation would not possible for me. I was lucky to even spell it right. 

I've struggled on and off for five years with a bit of discomfort and rarely pain bad enough to register on the "Scale of One to Ten Chart" nurses get such a kick out of asking patients at clinics, hospitals, or sister-in-laws' houses. One fact no one who knows me will deny is I have the pain tolerance of a four-year-old girl. No offense to four-year-old girls. That's just my perception. When you see me sweating and wincing in obvious pain, it is likely equivalent to a stubbed toe or hangnail on an average person.

Several years ago I had my first MRI. I had no idea what to expect, so I had no fear of it either. During the short interview that preceded the MRI, the nice lady asked if I was claustrophobic. I answered, "Of course not" as I puffed out my chest in such a manly manner. "four-year-old girls are claustrophobic, not manly men such as myself" Her chuckle at my claim of manliness must have been induced by her years of experience working with patients like myself.  

Sparing you most of the embarrassing details, I will just say when the 24 minute test had finally completed and I was out of the tube, the scrubs they provided for my comfort were completely soaked with perspiration, my heart rate was 190, my blood pressure was 224/176 and I was now aware of the fact that I was indeed quite claustrophobic.

Later that afternoon I had an appointment to see the surgeon to talk about the details of the upcoming surgery. Instead of telling me when and where the surgery would take place, he entered the examination room and said, "I'd love for you to help me with my pick-up payment next month, but there's just no reason to do surgery. It's not bad enough. I do want you to tighten your core and lose 20 pounds. That should help that little bulge go right back where it belongs. Also, take fish oil as a supplement" Through my unmatched analytic ability, I translated what he said as, "Your tummy is too big and you look like a heart-attack waiting to happen" Thanks Doc, I do own a mirror you know.