"If I were you," the man in the white lab coat (labeled "Lab") said, "I wouldn't be getting into any gunfights."

"You're shooting blanks."

Such a simple declaration for what seemed to be a logistical pain in the, well, elbow.

The surgeon left me with instructions for four lab tests. Three would require blood samples (the lab guy took four tubes of red fluid from my right elbow, the fourth "as a spare").

The fourth would require, well, a semen sample.

Oookay. The simpler part of my operation last summer was supposed to disconnect the gun cylinders from the gun barrel, so to speak, so yes, I realize we need to check to see if it actually worked.

And yeah, I understand how it's gotta be collected.

I just been kinda busy, what with hunting seasons and all.

The problem was those little words on the instructions attached to the sterile little plastic bottle.

Stating the sample must be delivered to the lab within 30 minutes of, well, um, of collection.

Thirty minutes.

I briefly consider the option of parking on an empty road near the west end of town, by the hospital, and collecting the sample "in the field", so to speak.

But no. Being a firm believer in Murphy's Law, I just know that would be when somebody I know, or some cop I know, would come pulling up alongside to make sure everything is "okay".

Not a good scenario.

No, I'll "collect" the sample at home.

Problem is, it's a 15 minute drive from home to the hospital.

That leaves just 15 minutes to "collect" the sample, zip up, throw on my heavy winter coat, get the truck started...

Ohhh crap. The Dodge hasn't been run in what, two weeks?

So, I gotta go out and start the old truck first. On the third try, with the battery audibly fading towards death, and my right foot furiously pumping gas through the empty fuel line into the cold, dry carburetor (those of you with auto mechanic backgrounds can probably tell me what year the Dodge is, just from that symptom), we finally get ignition.

I tend the gas carefully for several minutes, making sure it won't die while I'm out cleaning two week's worth of snow off the windows. When I get back in to shut off the warmed, and now safe for travel, engine I look at the gas guage.

Ohhh crap.

It's almost on empty. That's why I left that quart of oil on the steering column, as a reminder to gas up next time I went to town.

I look carefully at the guage. Will that get me to the hospital?

Ummm. Maybe.

Maybe not. And there certainly won't be time in my 30 minute window to gas up on the way in.

So, it is off to the interstate, and a quick fill-up at the truck stop. Then, just as quickly, home again.

Okay. I've got reliable transportation now.

The only worry left now, is... I'll have to go through admissions to get my "sample" admitted to the hospital. (I already checked.)

And we all know how efficient and prompt hospital admissions desks are.

So.

With favored porn in hand, so to speak, I collect the desired sample. And throw in a second, just because, well, I've had to abstain for a while here to get a proper sample, and I certainly don't want the people in the lab to think I'm a wimp. Screw on the lid, and scribble down the exact time (13:45) on the label.

Then it is a mad dash past the confused heelers, tucking the sample bottle inside the shirt to keep it warm (as per instructions), collecting the new sudoku book as I fly past to the truck. Which starts up just promptly as desired, and I haul ass down the interstate.

"Hauling ass" in this old rig, with a headwind, means 60-65 mph.

14:00 finds me pulling into the hospital parking lot.

And having to circle the building, because they've relocated the emergency and admissions doors since I was last here.

Craaap.

And they moved Admissions, too.

Double craaap.

Fortunately the young lady at admissions is not busy, and surprisingly efficient.

Fortunately the young lady at admissions does not ask what kind of sample I am delivering to the lab.

At precisely 14:13 I walk into the Lab (which, fortunately, they have not moved), and hand my sample kit over to the nice guy in the white lab coat.

Who, after ten minutes of going over my lab test codes with his young female assistant, finally bleeds four tubes of blood from my arm. And then wanders back to check for any sign of ammunition in my other sample.

Yielding the happy statements at the beginning of this entry.