Mood: not sure
Topic: "Doctor, Mr. MD"(9)
Frodo is the picture of health. That was not always the case, underscored by that winters evening when his sister informed him of what no one else thought he should know. Pneumonia was serious, even to a pre-teenager, and people thought that he might worry about the threat. In truth, all he could think of was a double-burger and fries, washed down with a chocolate shake. He survived it all, apparently, and has taken the position that everything works out OK if you don't worry about it. Frodo, it seems, thought a lot about MAD Magazine and the tutelage of Alfred E. Newman.
He overcame his childhood pestilence with a daily intake of liver, cooked no more than one minute, as opposed to the steroids recommended by the less-involved physicianery. Although things worked out well, Frodo still cannot stand the smell much less the taste of liver. In fact, he has oft thought that his premature end will come choking on a mouthful of that dreadful offal. He just never thought it might come so soon.
Frodo's new doctor, since the last one decided that family practice was no longer effusive, has noted that amid all the "normals, acceptables, and no problems" there need be a "slight concern." Frodo is, at first glance, anemic. Additional analysis of the presence of iron in his bloodstream will add greater clarity but the fact remains that Frodo may need to supplement his present intake with, get this, liver!
Frodo has decided to construct a suicide vest, which he will wear when next he visits the offices of the Republican National Party. If he's gotta go, he's gonna take some of those assholes with him, i.e. Ranch Preebus, Sara Pailend, and Michel Blockhead. Frodo opines, we believe, that it works to his advantage to have all the faux faithful join with those who admire the Hobbit, and wish him the best.
Frodo still thinks about double burgers, fries, and chocolate shakes. None of which smell like liver.