So there I was, just chilling. I was sitting in my bathroom, biting my toenails and putting stickers on my wang, when all of a sudden, I had some bad chest pains. There was pain shooting up my arms and shoulder, and my heart was palpitating fast.

"Boshman!" I yelled. "I think I'm having a heart attack!"

"Dude, that's bosh! I'll get the video camera!" Boshman replied.

"Don't be a dick, I need help! Call the police!"

"...Do the police have better video cameras?"

It was then that I realized Boshman was too retarded to help me.

While Boshman lit up a three-foot long cigar and puffed on it, I crawled out of the bathroom and down our deluded hallway to call for help. While stumbling around my house, I got into our kitchen, and I grabbed Boshman's to-do list off the table. Naturally, it was filled with Bosh things to do.

-The Art department for Pee Wee's Playhouse called. They need more crayons. And drugs.
-REMEMBER TO EAT!!!!!!!!
-Post about how BOSH you are on Ubersite
-fuk a dyk
-Call Habeeb "ACDC Chickenbone Berzerker" Thomas, Phd and ask him about EchoBoxing's hospital stay for his fractured dilly-o
-Kick Scrugg's ass
-Seduce Chelsea Clinton (BOSH!!)

I wrote down "Save Weetman from the jaws of death!" and picked up the phone and dialed for the ambulance.

"Guys, I'm having a HEART ATTACK!!!!!!!!" I said into the phone. I included all eight exclamation points.

"Hold on one moment, sir," said the chick on the other end. "We have far more important people than you who need medical help."

"Juuust!" I said angrily. "Dammit, Chuck Norris or Bart-Bart better be in trouble, anyone other than those two, this isn't worth it."

"I hear Chuck Norris' tears can cure cancer," Boshman said, walking into the kitchen and blowing cigar smoke at the cat. "Too bad he's never cried."

"I heard Bart-Bart's semen can cure cancer," I replied, still on hold. "Too bad he's never ejaculated. Ever."

Still on hold, Boshman and I discussed world politics and foreign policy in Iraq, as well as Pacific Stock and financial disputes in the Indonesian landmass while the 911 chick played some easily-listening muzak for me. Muzak is weet.

"How's your heart?" Boshman asked.

"About to explode, thanks for asking!" I answered in a friendly tone.

"Can I touch it?" Boshman said.

"Wait a few minutes," I replied. "It's going to burst out of my chest in a little while, just feel your own heart until then."

"I bet the Pope was raped by drug dealers," Boshman said factually. "That's why they're so busy at the hospital. When a Pope is raped, they have to put everything on hold and tend to His Holiness' Anus."

"Haha. Bosh," I said. "That's pretty weet."

"Real men don't have heart attacks," Boshman said. "Scruggs had a heart attack once, so I punched him real hard in the chest and told him to deal with it like a man."

"That stupid Pope," I said, hanging up the phone. "They're never going to come and make my heart better."

"Sorry, Weetman," Boshman said. "Wanna watch the Sopranos? I hear there's going to be a Mondo Bosh! BOOBY TONIGHT!"

"Weet," I said. We went in and turned on the Sopranos. It was bosh.

I don't know why I'm telling you all this. I'm a generally private individual, and I have no intention to meet anyone on this site. I hate people who create illnesses for attention, and I tend to keep things to myself. Still, my eloquence is limited to what I know.

When I was born in 1990, I was given a very small chance to live. I was delivered with a hole in my heart's mitral valve, and I received my last rites at the age of one week, and not expected to live. However, due to the miracle of modern medicine, I've survived sixteen years longer than that.

Heart problems are genetic in my family. My grandmother had a heart attack on an August morning in 1988, and she went the whole day without telling anyone. She went to the mall, went shopping, got home, and collapsed. She might have lived to see me born had she told someone. An uncle of mine had a heart attack in the middle of the night, and woke his wife up to tell her where the will was, and died promptly after. My dad had a heart attack on the morning of my 13th birthday, and was in the hospital for a week; since then, he's been exercising regularly to keep in better shape.

I've inherited all my family illnesses: mitral valve prolapse syndrome, an enlarged aorta, pulmonary stenosis, and a bucketload of others. I've ran three seasons of track and two of cross country with my conditions, although things seem to have worsened. Last October I had a bad palpitation running a Cross-Country meet in Paterson, NJ, and had to go to the hospital. May 8th this year I had another bad chest pain, like an icy vice squeezing my heart, and had to miss the last meet of Spring Track.

Right now, I'm wearing a 30-day aortic event monitor on my body, attached by electrodes in three spots around my chest. My dad has a lot of the same problems I do, and he's still alive, so I try not to be that worried. Guys at school call me "the cyborg" and "weet heart," but I'm glad they joke about it. It makes me feel better that they make light of the condition because it seems less threatening; I'm really not worried about it all. (Weet is a slang word at my school, which I adapted into my Weetman stories)

Feel free to make all the jokes you want about my condition. I recommend something involving the similar-sounding mitral valve prolapse and anal prolapse.

-Chris