Here’s a real Man, What The Hell? for you.
This week I went in for my annual physical, which has become more of a bi-annual physical lately, given that last year we moved across country and then there was a global pandemic and also I’m pretty lousy at scheduling stuff. While there, I mentioned to my doctor that I’d had a few moments recently where it seemed like my heart had been beating kinda fast and “Is that bad?” (it’s not good). The doctor recommended I see a cardiologist, handed me some lit-er-a-ture, and sent me on my merry way—until the next day, when I got a frantic call from her office shouting something about potassium levels and cardiac electrical biorhythms and (this is the part I remember most clearly), “You really should go to the ER. Like, now.” Wheee.
As you might imagine, checking into an ER during a pandemic is a somewhat complicated affair: First, you answer questions shouted at you through an intercom outside the hospital doors like you’re trying to infiltrate Jabba’s palace. Once inside, the process continues with an in-person questionnaire and then—after you’ve been taken to a room—you get a phone call from the front desk, 27 feet away, for a few more questions to round things out. Again: Wheee.
Fast-forward about three hours: I’ve been monitored, exsanguinated, pumped full of saline, peed for about eight minutes straight, learned my nurse’s health insurance is so bad that she’s on her husband’s plan even though she literally works in the hospital, and finally been told that my potassium levels are completely fine. I do, however, have what was officially described as a “funky heart X-ray” and, even though I was never in any real danger of dropping dead on the spot, I should really go see a cardiologist to de-funk things.
For someone with an as-of-yet ambiguous heart something, the anticipation is not exactly doing me any favors at this point.
Still, I do my due diligence (only two hot dogs for dinner, thankyewverymuch) and head to the cardiologist the next day. There I am told I have a decidedly uncool sounding “atrial flutter,” which should be the name of a My Little Pony with an anatomically correct heart oozing blood on its side. What it actually is, however, is a weird little short circuit I’ve inherited that makes my heart keep going pitter-pat before the previous pitter has finished patting. The solution is to undergo the much more gnarly named 🤘Catheter Ablation🤘 which involves sticking a bunch of tubes in my legs and shoulder, and literally burning the shit out of the offending cells in my heart until those fuckers are gone gone gone. At that point, I’m basically back to business as usual, except now I’ll get to say things like, “I got a bum ticker.”
All of this is to say that, while I usually try not to make “Man, What The Hell?” about me personally, this week has been such a monumental man, what the absolute fucking hell??? that I couldn’t really resist putting my story out there into the broader universe of truly “what the hell?” moments that threaten to overwhelm us on a weekly basis.
Ask not for whom the “man, what the…” hells — it hells for thee.
Anyway, onto the rest.
Jet blue chunks
The pandemic has made a lot of people do a lot of stupid things over the past few months, but in my darkest moments of quiet desperation I don’t think it would ever, ever occur to me that the solution to my quarantine blues is to treat myself to a feast of shitty airplane food.
“It wasn’t gourmet, but it wasn’t the worst thing I’ve ever had,” 23-year-old America Edwards told The Wall Street Journal, explaining that she’d spent actual money on airline food to eat in the comfort of her home, since she wasn’t able to fly to Australia earlier this year.
“It lived up to airline food’s reputation of being not very good,” 31-year-old Isaac Krasny, another burgeoning airline foodie, added. “I was curious to find out if maybe it’s the setting that makes airline food taste not great, like being in a steel tube soaring through the air. But that wasn’t it.”
Relatedly: For those missing the other creature comforts of air travel, I am now taking orders for $50 sessions where I kick the back of your chair and play movies on my iPad without headphones for an hour.
The shaping of water
President Trump’s signature military accomplishment—creating a nascent “Space Force”—hasn’t exactly achieved a smooth liftoff; it shares a name (and lost a trademark battle) with a so-so Netflix series making fun of its entire existence; its logo is a lousy Star Trek rip off; its motto Semper Supra, “Always Above,” is painfully self-evident (space is, indeed, always above us); and perhaps most damning of all, it does extremely bad tweets.
Being asked to travel into space to be a “part of the shaping” is the sort of thing I’d imagine hearing mid-UFO abduction, right before a team of Zeta Reticulans probe me until my insides liquify.
Even the force itself seems to realize its cryptic promise of ~ s h a p i n g ~ was, per a spokesman, “a clumsy attempt to talk about the future,” which doesn’t exactly inspire confidence about their ability to actually go to space in that aforementioned future.
POTUS Hose us
There are few things funnier to my hopelessly internet-poisoned brain then when Donald Trump gets up in front of a roaring crowd of sweaty middle managers and spends 20 minutes complaining about how he can’t flush his toilet, or fully soak himself during a shower.
But folks, because the president is a man of action, he’s going to do something about this problem (not being moist enough). The wet—but not-too-wet president—has proposed a new law changing the 2.5 gallon-per-minute limit on most showers to become a 2.5 gallon-per-minute limit on each shower head. Got more than one shower head in your bathroom? Congratulations, you’ve got two and a half more gallons of water ready to blast you clean.
“You could have 10, 15 gallons per minute powering out of the shower head, literally probably washing you out of the bathroom,” Appliance Standards Awareness Project Director Andrew deLaski told the AP.
It’s at this point that I’d like you to picture a damp, nude Donald Trump—already irritated by having to flush the toilet six or seven times in a row (he eventually just gave up)—sanding in his White House shower, screaming at Jared to make him “more wet.”
Boar’d to death
Here’s an update on a MWTH? from last week. Remember the German swine that stole a naked man’s laptop bag at Lake Teufelssee and captured the hearts of millions in the process? Well, this particular little piggy might be headed to the market soon, according to German State Forestry official Marc Franusch, who told the AFP that the boar and its babies could very well end up being one of the more than 1,000 wild pigs shot to death during the upcoming culling season.
“If there are special dangers for humans or animals in places such as the bathing area at Teufelssee, appropriate measures must be taken to avert these dangers,” Franusch explained.
So I ask: Who among you brave Man, What The Hell?-ers is in a position to adopt and care for a wild pig and its piglets? This laptop stealing, naked-man fleeing boar must be protected at all costs.
Frank Luntz, my dear, I don’t give a damn…
There’s an argument to be made that Frank Luntz is the single most responsible person for condemning this planet to a horrifying future of catastrophic global warming. Luntz, a GOP political consultant and pollster, is the man who came up with the idea for the Bush administration to use the “less frightening” term “climate change” when discussing how best to prevent anyone from, y’know, doing anything about it.
In any case, here’s Franko showing off his $1 million recreation of the Oval Office, which really tells you all you need to know about the guy.
If I had to choose how I wanted to die, I have to admit “get blown up by a faulty guacamole maker” is not the first thing that would come to mind.
Let’s all just stop and appreciate how simultaneously wonderful, and low-key vicious, Minnesota Rep. Ilhan Omar’s daughter Isra Hirsi is to have shared this video of her mother celebrating her recent Democratic primary win.
Teens: Even when they’re proud of you, they can’t help but drag you, too.
I can’t believe I’m saying this in our cursed year of 2020, but is…is this a good song by Weezer? Is that even possible anymore? What on Earth is happening?
Be excellent to each other this weekend, dudes!
Did anything make you say “Man, what the hell?” this week? Perhaps out loud to a roommate, loved one, or disinterested household pet/plant? Misery loves company, so share your personal what the hells in the comments below!
(pic via gracie films/20th television – [annoyed grunt])