It has been a long week and I do not mean that in a good way. I had to go to the doctor with some major medical concerns. Now I don’t mind the doctors all that much but my concerns were real and you know some things you just have to take seriously.

 

I’m heading to Rio tomorrow for a few nights – you know for work – and in honesty I had, and still have some, serious reservations. My doctor is normally this crusty old-man, you know the typical air-medical doctor, that totally seems to enjoy the old cough and drop too much. But on the day, it’s a lady and I use the term lady because not only is she intelligent but I basically want her number. So I suppose I’m being, respectful?

 

I decide that no matter how much I’m worried about the trip to Rio I’ve got to play it cool with this chick because I wouldn’t be as grossed out if she was doing the cough check if you know what I mean.

 

So I hit her with the first concern, which is despite the Olympics being over is there still a chance that Zika could get me. I’m worried my head might shrink and given I’m, eh, “allergic to condoms” how much of an issue is it. She doesn’t go wild on the whole “safe-sex” thing which is definitely a tip of the cap in my direction but she says I should be okay. I’m getting seriously positive vibes at this stage, it literally could not be going any better.

 

When I hit her with my second concern, which pertains to the likelihood that I will get robbed on the street because I’m rich as shit, she seems confused. Admittedly, I was expecting an old-man “father figure” type to answer with some words of wisdom etc so I kind of get her confusion. She doesn’t even answer she just kind of stares at me like I’ve just told a poorly timed fart joke. I realise she’s probably taken aback that I’ve been so direct in advertising I’m rich as shit and she’s wondering how she can get her hooks into me, but we move on quickly because I don’t want to embarrass her.

 

Finally, I decide that I should give her the show so I tell her that I have a blemish on my chest that I’m worried about – you know “skin melania” or whatever. It’s almost good that Sushi I had last week had me spewing out both ends for two days because I’ve shed around 5kgs.

 

Come to think of it I’m pretty sure that sneaky cabin-crew screwed with my Sushi because I didn’t swipe her right on Tinder. There’s part of me thinks maybe I should just swipe all the crew right but then they won’t leave me alone.

 

Back to the hot doctor as she moves in closer to examine my chest, she stops and says “do you do sunbeds? Clearly I do, who doesn’t, but she just launches into a rant about the consequences of “skin-melania” and sunbeds and blah blah blah. In honesty I spend the whole rant day-dreaming about scoffing Sushi and before you know it my stomach turns and I blow chunks all over her. I don’t know where it comes from, but it comes hard and fast. I suddenly realise what’s going on, but it’s too late, it’s just there in all its yellow and green glory dripping off her gorgeous cheekbones and chin. It ain’t pretty.

 

I make my excuses and get the hell out of there; I don’t even request medical attention for my dodgy stomach. I’m left hoping that my next visit to the doctor involves an old guy that smells of talcum powder; who’s just dying to check my prostate. #nobueno

 

Brazil tomorrow – I better hit Tinder and start swiping right!

 

Laters

 

LJ