The BS Conundrum

The other day, I was testing out my blood sugar level. No, I'm not diabetic, but my dad is. But not on a full blown level. Just a light version, so to speak. Y'know, if, like, diabetes was a type of software, my dad's would be a demo version, and the occasional nag screen would pop up either asking for a full upgrade or...

What the fuck is this nerd talking about...?

Uh,Okay, beginning to lose you here, but anyways, as I was saying, I was helping my dad configure a few stuff on his shiny new blood sugar level tester thing. It's this little gadget that sucks blood and spews forth numbers that indicate whether or not your blood sugar level qualifies you to piss in your coffee every morning. (I exagerrate. Some people drink tea..)

How this thing works is like this: you prick your finger with the supplied needle which is attached to a pen-like mechanism. It doesnt hurt but the thought a sudden intrusion of needle penetrating skin naturally makes one twitch. When the red stuff begins oozing out, you drop a, uh, droplet of blood on a strip (thats attached to the tester) and that, with the magic of modern techmolagy, calculates your blood sugar level, etc etc, ding: you get your blood sugar level. It's good to know, really. I guess it's one of those things that make you look brainy in conversation, y'know. 'So, I was testing my blood sugar level and as it turns out, im a 7. Whats yours? Oh, you dont know? Most diabetics dont know. You sir, are a dead man.' Then they'd kick me out of the Donut shop...

But I digress.

So that day, as I was helping everyone test out their BS level (fancy way of saying Blood Sugar, innit?), it came then to my moms turn. While I was prepping her for it,

'So what's your BS level?' she asked.

'7.6*' I said, swabbing an alcohol-soaked cotton on her forefinger.

'7.6?' she says.'Thats 2.6 above average!' Uh oh, I thought myself. Here it begins.

And my mum begins to lecture me on how I should stop consuming all manner of fizzy drinks and how I should control my eating habits, etc etc etc...

'Adoi!' she says as I pricked her finger with the needle pen.

'And that would be the needle,' I said, placing the droplet of blood on the machine. As it worked out the sugary math, my mum kept on the lecture on the Deathly Dangers of Coca Cola(TM) and the Sugary Evil That Is Pepsi(TM) and lets not forget the 7 sinful sugary spoonfuls of F&N(TM). Look at your brother, he's 4 points above normal. And he's fit! It's the family... etc etc...' my mom went on...

*BEEP*

11.4.

'11.4', I said.

'What?!'

'11.4. Sez here. See?'

'Do it again,' says mum. I did, and...

*BEEP*

'11.3'

'The machines broken.'

WTF??!?!? After the long-ass lecture, and with me being only 2 points above normal BS level, she deduced the fact, just like that, that the machines gone kaput.

'I dont trust these machines anyway. The hospital usually gets it right, etc etc...'

'Thats a bit hypocritical, innit?' I said, packing up and disposing of used needles. But then, who am I to argue with such a sweet lady. Heh heh.

But just to clarify, my mums NOT a diabetic. The machine ocasionally spews out inaccurate numbers sometimes, depending on what that person ate a few minutes or hours before doing the test.

Of course, lecture or no, my mum does have a point. I really ought to watch my diet or I just might be the person pissing in my morning cup of coffee. Which is scary because I'm a tea person. Kencing Manis indeed.




*if I recall correctly