WARNING: The views expressed in this blog do not necessarily reflect the blogger’s opinions or beliefs – we just find it funny.
The Viking is a proud guy and he has every reason to be so. He makes no compromises when it comes to things he does and believes in, has a soft squishy heart under all that cursing and shouting, and he comes from a long line of heathens. He’s particularly proud of his heathen-ness and Danish-ness.
There is just one little thing – he’s half English……‘God Save the Queen, a stiff upper lip, adorable taxis and double-decker busses’ English. It muddies his Danish bloodline and is the root cause of his every ailment…..in his opinion. It doesn’t matter that every English person has a healthy dose of Viking & Saxon, it only matters that his hemorrhoids are English.
The reason I’m telling you this is because his Doctor is a lovely English lady who finds it charming that I accompany The Viking to every appointment so there aren’t any translation and diagnosis misunderstandings. And the reason I’m telling you this is because The Viking had a Doctor’s appointment on Tuesday morning.
He needs a thorough health check-up and we wanted to talk to her about his heart murmur*. He is 60 years old, after all, and one can’t be too careful given the amount of cursing and shouting he does.
The appointment was going great – his blood pressure was a little high, but he had been out of meds for a week or so, and she assured us that the problem Erik had with blocked arteries was an entirely different thing from The Viking’s heart murmur. Then she started talking about cholesterol and that’s when the train jumped the rails and careened, out of control, into the Medical Clinic, taking out 1 patient, a receptionist, and 14 old magazines.
The Viking: All my sisters and my brother have high cholesterol. And they aren’t even fat.
Doctor: Then you really need to start taking those meds I prescribed two years ago.
The Viking: I started them a couple weeks ago.
Doctor: Great! Keep taking them.
The Viking: It’s that shit English in me. All my problems are because of my fucking English genes.
Doctor (slow blinks as she processes what he just said): ….
Me (eyes widening and lips pulling back in a grimace): ….
The Viking (staring at the floor): ….
Doctor (looking at me): …..
Me (looking at everything else in the room other than her): ……
Doctor: Okaaaay, let’s go get you weighed.
Later that day, The Viking comes in from the garage and grumbles about his knees hurting from kneeling on the cement to work on a snowmobile.
I collapse into a heap of laughter. “Are your knees English, by chance?”
The Viking: Yes! Fucking shit English knees!
Me (tears have started rolling down my face): You do realize that your Doctor is English?
The Viking: I don’t care!
Personally, I think he hadn’t thought of that before the whole hot mess came out of his mouth but once he was in, he wasn’t going to back out. That’s his Danish stubborn-ness.
Me: You also realize she’s the one that’s going to check your Prostate, don’t you?
The Viking: Whatever.
The English half of his heritage is also responsible for his quick temper, foul language, buddha belly, sleep apnea, and bad back, but I’m hoping he won’t feel the need to explain this to his lovely Doctor.
And since I’ve known The Viking, his English genes have caught the flu 4 times, his English Appendix almost burst, his English neck glands became irritated and put him in the hospital for a week, his English finger got a really bad cut, his English heart has a murmur, and his English sinuses have caught 13 colds.
His Danish body parts are still going strong without the slightest complaint. And that, my friends, is the single most important reason Denmark is the happiest place on earth.
*Since we ARE talking about The Viking, I will henceforth call it a Heart Shout.
