Red Cross

Giving blood was such a better idea in theory. My friends and I decided that we would go over to the gym, where the drive was taking place, waltz in, drop some of our precious life manna and peace out. This was not the case. It took an hour and a half. I briefly leafed through the packet of information that said something to the effect of, "If you're not an ubermench, we don't want none of your damn diseased blood. Go home now, you slacker." Thankfully, I am ubermensch, and was able to give blood.

I sat down in the waiting section and was escorted to a chair, where I was asked for paperwork that I certainly didn't have. I was redirected to the chairs in the waiting section facing the opposite direction, because, unbeknownst to me, they are descending from on high to allow me to give blood, and I'm just a stupid peon, despite being led to believe that I'm an ubermensch. On an unrelated note, there was a copy of The Boston Globe sitting around, and somebody had taken a picture of a baby on the top right and glued it over Condoleezza Rice's face. We stared at it for a good few seconds before realizing that it wasn't just some of the worst Photoshopping ever, but in fact the work of a scissors vigilante, righting all terrible front page pictures. There was some obvious questions we couldn't answer, like who carries around both glue and scissors in her bag?

Anyway, after this important contemplation, a nurse took me to a top secret, screened section. The woman then jabbed me with a plastic thing that looked like a CD plastic opener and took some of my blood. One of my revelations for the day was that I am secretly The Amazing Human Blood Clot, and she had to go for the second finger before she got enough blood to perform magical tests with. There was then a rigorous line of questioning which, in retrospect, sounded something like this:
Nurse, "Have you had sex with a man who's had sex with another male who was mixing medications?"
Me, "No."
"Do you have an obscure, African disease?"
"No."
"Have you had sex with somebody with an obscure, African disease?"
"No."
"What about interacted with somebody in the last six months who owns a dog with an obscure, African disease?"
"No."
"Your mom?"
"What?"
"Have you ever been ravaged by an angry monkey with a foaming mouth?"
"No."
"Have you ever thought about what it would feel like?"
"Would it disqualify me if I said yes?"
"Yes."
"No."

They also asked me if I'd had sex with a prostitute. Fortunately, they preserved my delicate senses by phrasing the question of, "Have you been a prostitute?" as "Have you ever received money, drugs or other payment for sexual services?"

At last, I was allowed to give my blood, which I proceeded to do like the blood giving badass that I am. I pumped out the blood in six minutes. And then I went to the food table and ate ice cream. I think more people would come and there wouldn't be such a panic about not having enough blood if people knew that they would be offered chilidogs and ice cream after giving blood. Love of one's fellow man may not be compelling enough, but I assure you that free food is. Blood's free, we can make more of it, but I can't make my own, free corndog. Red Cross might have to get things moving more quickly, though, because I don't know if the cup of vanilla ice cream was worth an hour and a half of my life.