The Alarmist Part II

Remember that post about being an alarmist? Here's what happened:

I had the bronchitis. Went to the doctor. Got medicine. Took medicine. Cough wouldn't go away. Googled cough. Discovered I had lung cancer. Refused to go to the doctor to avoid lung cancer being confirmed. Wife forced me to go to doctor today. Doctor says I have upper respiratory infection.

Here's my question: Why the hell didn't Google tell me that? Nowhere in any of the eight sites in which my trembling fingers input my symptoms did a single one say upper respiratory infection. No. Where. Not. A. One. I picture the Google boys chuckling as they sit in their evil lair that tracks everything as I enter, "dry cough."

I said, "No, doc, it's cancer. Get it out."

He laughed at me. And the Chinese never laugh.

See, here's the other problem: I think life should be a movie. And I like to think of my life as a movie, with me as its star. Its hunky, nimble, wily star. But in the movies those who cough are doomed. Name me a movie where a character coughed who didn't eventually die. So, naturally when I cough, I figure I got me about 87 minutes to live.

The good news in all my Googling is that I did discover that after you've stopped smoking for 15 years your chances of getting lung cancer are the same as if you never smoked. I think I quit around 1992 or 1993. At least I quit smoking regularly. You know, a pack a day. I did sneak them after I supposedly quit. Had to. My wife was worried about my health (I had a job then). I only snuck a couple a day though, the mouth wash made me nauseous. I smoked Newports. Newpies. The only white man in Milwaukee who did. Great cigarette. You kids thinking about smoking? Try you some Newps. I don't know why I'm going on. Most of you probably stopped reading in disgust when you hit the Chinese joke.