Uncle Slappy visits the cardiologist.

Uncle Slappy is still with us. He's alive and well and staying through the weekend which culminates in the Day of Atonement, Yom Kippur. While up north, Slappy's seen a host of doctors, the medical professionals he's been seeing for the last two or three decades. Yesterday he went to Dr. Warshauer, his cardiologist, for a stress test.

"I saw Richard P. Cohen on Monday," Slappy began, stressing the middle initial of his long-time internist.

"Richard P. Cohen?" asked Warshauer.

"Well, there's also in the phonebook a Richard T. Cohen, but I didn't want you should think I saw a podiatrist."

"Let's see how the old ticker is," said Warshauer. The nurse had Uncle Slappy remove his sweater, shirt and t-shirt and affixed sensors in about a dozen places on his upper half including the inside of each wrist. The old man sat on a table and they ran the EKG. (Above.)

"Good, good" said Warshauer as the results began printing out.

"Good?" asked Slappy. "What does good mean?"

"Good means everything's normal."

"Well, if I feel like trafe when everything's normal, how should I feel when something's bad?"

Warshauer has an older clientele and knew enough to feint the jab.

Next, it was time for Uncle Slappy's stress test. He stepped onto the treadmill, held onto the urethaned handle and the doctor started the machine. Slappy walked slowly, then more vigorously to keep pace with the ever-increasing tempo of the tread.

After a while, the Dr. began dialing down the pace of the machine, finally allowing Uncle Slappy, sweating now, to step off.

"You have the heart of a 50-year-old man," Dr. Warshauer pronounced.

"Yeah, and I bet he was glad to get rid of it," Slappy answered.

He paid his ever-increasing co-pay and we walked, together, slowly home.