Under Pressure

I had a doctor's appointment this past week; got to get my money's worth out of Medicare, you know.

Everything is fine; I'm the picture of health, if that picture is hanging skin and gray hair. But I think my physician had had a bad commute or was mad at his wife or something.

He decided to check my blood pressure. Wrapping the cuff around my arm, he began pumping that little ball to air the thing up. It was getting tighter and tighter, yet he kept squeezing and squeezing on the tiny air pump.

Uh, Doc, that's starting to hurt. Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze.

Seriously, man, my arm is really tingling below my elbow. Pump, pump, pump.

Honestly, Doctor, my arm is blue, no, purple. My arm is purple, Doc. Squeeze, squeeze.

"Doc!" I finally implored in panic.

"Oh, I am sorry!" He finally released the ball. "Oh dear, Mr. Cosgriff! Your blood pressure is 295 over 178!" 

I'm sure it's not, Doc. Try again, on my other arm. The bicep on my right arm is smaller than my index finger just now.