Wow, Doctor, thank you so much for seeing me on such short notice. I really appreciate it.

            Well, I think I might be coming down with a touch of the Plague. Yeah, the Black Plague. Bubonic, I guess is the real name, if you want to be technical. See? Suppurating lymph nodes. Necrotic buboes. I know: try to keep your shirts and pants clean with those. Also, I've been vomiting blood, but I'm actually kind of enjoying that. China? Are you kidding me? I barely had time to take that weekend trip up to Door County with my rat-juggling group. Yes, that's right, we juggle rats.

You know, this is the kind of ignorant, bigoted remark that keeps rat-juggling from its rightful place in American sports! (Or perhaps entertainment.) My kids are always saying the same kind of thing and I just keep telling them: I did not raise you to be bigots. "Dad, you shouldn't juggle rats. Dad, those look like biting rats. Dad, those look like Plague rats." Don't judge me!

            Hey, I'm sorry I flew off the handle there, Doc. I'll admit it: I can be a little impulsive. Especially when it comes to juggling rats. It's such an amazing sport. (Or perhaps entertainment.) Their little pink naked tails flying through the air. It's just so damn…festive!

            And just for the record, they looked just fine, those rats. Not even a little bit like Plague rats. Not like the ones I was juggling in the Independence Day parade.

            And by the way, I don't see anywhere in Obama's healthcare plan where he's covering Plague caused by juggling rats. That's the problem with nanny-state socialism: it eliminates everything that makes us human.

            So now I guess I have to get those shots in the stomach. Ohhhh… those are for rabies, huh?

Well, I hate to admit this, but I guess I'd better get those too. What with all the running-naked-among-the-bats. Now, I am not going to apologize for that one either; I just have to say, if you see a flock of bats flitting around at twilight and you don't have the urge to just take off all your clothes and run around in the middle of it throwing crickets into the air, your soul is dead.

I'm sorry, Doctor; I guess that's what the kids call TMI, huh? Well, hey, it's not like I'm Richard Gere, you know what I mean? Because I'm pretty particular about what gets up into that part of me, you know? If there's anything going up that way, it's going to be a bunch of those little feet-cleaning fish.

What? Oh, Australia, god, yes, I would love to go to Australia. From your mouth to god's ears, you know? Petting box jellyfish, leaping among the crown-of-thorns starfish, games of toss with funnel-web spiders--and swimming with crocodiles…whoa, I have to get control of myself here. You sure hit that on the head, Doc. I pray to get to Australia someday. Pray.

Oh, and speaking of praying, you wouldn't happen to have any rattlesnake antivenom, would you? Well, it's been a long time since I've been to church, and better safe than sorry. I mean, those snakes aren't going to handle themselves.