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COLUMN DEP’T. MR WRONG: It's a Physical, Not a Social SO I WENT to the Doctor the other day, for my annual physical, I’m fine, I guess. The Doctor had a Doctor-lieutenant greet me and weigh me (with my goddamn clothes and shoes on, c’mon), and take my temperature and my blood pressure and ask me some questions, starting with the greeting “How are you?” Huh? Who the fuck are you? Who’s asking? Wha? Have we started? I have been to the Doctor a lot, enough to know that’s a Medical question, “How are you,” you gotta watch out, they’re on the clock, it’s like a hot restaurant, they wanna turn and burn your ass and clear you the fuck outta there for the next table, so if they go “How are you” and you’re not on your fucking game, and you go “Oh, I am fine, thank you for asking,” because you think it’s small talk or polite-time or something, and then it will be Medical Time and direct inquiries as to your perceived health and/or ailments, fuck no, you said “fine” and they are gonna move you right along for a Tetanus shot or whatever, kick your ass outta there and rack up that Office Visit. Cough, please, ka-ching! Look, I am not a dispenser of Medical Advice or Diagnosis, but just saying, if anybody at your next Medical encounter says words to the effect of “How’s it goin’?” you better be ready to tell ‘em some stuff, don’t be shy or polite, even, lean the fuck in. Yeah, I was ready and aimed to fire! The way this Economy is going, I have no fuckin’ idea when I’m gonna have a chance to get some Medical Attention, seriously. They went “OHAI, so how are—” and I was like “Doctor” (or whatever their rank is, I just call ’em all “Doctor”), “it hurts when I do [THIS], and [THIS] is doing [THAT], and I have a [THIS] on my [THAT], and also, question: why does my [THIS] feel like [THAT], can you take a look at [THIS], etc.” I apologize to the Gentle Readers of the Mr. Wrong column for the lack of detail, but as a subcontractor of Indignity, I have to observe the HIPAA Privacy Act with the medical stuff. I appreciate your understanding, and rest assured any advice ever shared in your letters to wrongcolumn@gmail.com is always treated in strict confidence, unless my computer gets hacked, but in that case, I will split the proceeds from the Class-Action suit with you when the check shows up, and we’ll both get a free Credit Report or Internet Protection or whatever they call it, and that will probably also get hacked, and so forth.  This is an electro-graphic representation of my ventricle, or something, ventriculating. BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP. Anyway! I’m in there, on the table with the paper, and after the warmup act puts a buncha stickers on me for the Electrocardiac-thing, which I always thought was called an "EKG," but what does that even stand for? So I looked on Wikipedia. Aha! The Germans! The version with '-K-', more commonly used in American English than in British English, is an early-20th-century loanword from the German acronym EKG for Elektrokardiogramm (electrocardiogram),[1] which reflects that German physicians were pioneers in the field at the time. Today, AMA style and–under its stylistic influence–most American medical publications use ECG instead of EKG.[2] The German term Elektrokardiogramm as well as the English equivalent, electrocardiogram, consist of the Neo-Latin/international scientific vocabulary elements elektro- (cognate electro-) and kardi- (cognate 'cardi-'), the latter from Greek kardia (heart).[3] The '-K-' version is more often retained under circumstances where there may be verbal confusion between ECG and EEG (electroencephalography) due to similar pronunciation.
Anyway, the Dr.-Doctor comes in, and says “Hello, how—” and off I go, I don’t care, Doctor, Doctor, “it hurts when I do [THIS], and [THIS] is doing [THAT], and I have a [THIS] on my [THAT], and also, question: why does my [THIS] feel like [THAT], can you take a look at [THIS], and actually I don’t think I told the pre-Doctor, but my [THIS] feels like I mighta [THAT],” etc. So the Dr. Doctor M.D. looks in my ear-holes and puts a stethoscope under my shirt, and tells me I should probably [THIS] when I [THAT], and that’s it! I still had my trousers on! No gown that’s open in the back, no turn your head and cough, and no surgically-gloved digit introduced into my [THERE]. Apparently there’s a blood test for [THAT] now. What am I paying for? What the hell? No drugs, nothing! I kinda feel like I didn’t get my money’s worth! The MR. WRONG COLUMN is a general-interest column appearing weekly. No refunds. Write Wrong: wrongcolumn@gmail.com. SIDE PIECES DEP'T. For Flaming Hydra, I wrote about the signage at the Kirstenbosch National Botanical Garden in Cape Town, and how having the words for a thing can anchor you in a place: So there was time to marvel at the gleaming sliver of the trees by the paths up the slope, to absorb the sensation of their shine in the cloudy light, and then came the information that these were in fact silvertrees: local, endangered, threatened by root rot. A bird perched by the path and then flew across it in a glimmer of metallic green, edged with other gaudy colors, and shortly afterward a posted guide to the garden’s common birds introduced us retrospectively to the southern double-collared sunbird. A great square block of stone faded in and out of the mists high above, and then a sign with a drawing of the landscape labeled it as Castle Rock, the nearest among the shapes and masses that make up Table Mountain (Skeleton Gorge, Fernwood Peak, Devil’s Peak), gray sandstone thrust up above mudstone on the midslope above Cape granite at the bottom.
WEATHER REVIEWS New York City, October 8, 2025★★★ The rain had gathered the scattered individual golden leaflets into bright masses in the gutters. A traffic cop in a safety-green slicker stood ticketing a pickup truck by the corner. The showers occupied the morning, then retreated right on schedule, till by 2:30 sun was playing on the fluttering still-green leaves. The keys migrated from the pocket of yesterday's shorts to a pair of jeans. Downtown, the streets were fully dry; even the eternal puddles on Mott Street were safely down inside their potholes. The windows were open and all the air conditioners were off, leaving a hushed background for unselfconsciously loud people and indifferently loud insects, until a passing jet drowned them out. EASY LISTENING DEP'T.HERE IS TODAY'S Indignity Morning Podcast! Here is the Indignity Morning Podcast archive! ADVICE DEP'T.HEY! DO YOU like advice columns? They don't happen unless you send in some letters! Surely you have something you want to justify to yourself, or to the world at large. Now is the perfect time to share it with everyone else through The Sophist, the columnist who is not here to correct you, but to tell you why you're right. Direct your questions to The Sophist, at indignity@indignity.net, and get the answers you want. SANDWICH RECIPES DEP'T.WE PRESENT INSTRUCTIONS in aid of the assembly of sandwiches selected from Buffalo Cookery: A Collection of Choice Recipes Carefully Selected, by St. Luke's Sunday-School Ladies' Auxiliary, Buffalo, Wyoming in 1916 and available at archive.org for the delectation of all. OLIVE SANDWICHES Mix chopped olives and nuts with salad dressing, and spread with a lettuce leaf between thin slices of bread. If you decide to prepare and attempt to enjoy a sandwich inspired by this offering, be sure to send a picture to indignity@indignity.net . SELF-SERVING SELF-PROMOTION DEP'T. Indignity is presented on Ghost. Indignity recommends Ghost for your Modern Publishing needs. Indignity gets a slice if you do this successfully!
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