To the joy of many of you, this will probably be the last time I pontificate politically this election season. I think the time for joking went out of the window when someone nearly assassinated former President Donald Trump, and current President Joe Biden announced he would not run for re-election due to concerns about his cognitive abilities.

Neither events are funny, nor should they be made fun of. Instead, send positive vibes their way, watch how now-Presidential nominee Kamala Harris fares, and hope that in November we elect the candidate our country needs.

Just one final point, and I’m not saying this tongue-in-cheek. If Joe Biden is not mentally capable of serving another term, why is he being allowed to run our country for another half year?

Now on to today’s topic. I failed my stress test this week. After multiple times asking my Doctor if having a panic attack counted as cardio (the answer was an emphatic “No”), I decided to go have my heart properly tested. One, to prove I have one for you cynics out there. And two, to see if there are any blockages that need to be fixed.

“But Bob,” you may ask, “How could you fail a stress test?” Turns out it was fairly easy. The first task was to run on a treadmill for nine minutes, with the speed of the track increasing incrementally.

I usually don’t mind the treadmill. I just pretend I’m Steve Austin (The Six Million Dollar Man). I even run the show’s theme song through my head to keep me motivated.

Unfortunately, this time did not work like that. Instead of the Bionic Man, I ran more like George Jetson, going around and around the contraption while yelling for my wife, Jane. Seriously – get me off this crazy thing.

And, since discretion is the better part of not doing a face-plant in the Doctor’s office, I tapped out. Not even close to nine minutes in. Heck, I couldn’t see nine minutes in my future with a pair of binoculars and a map. To put it bluntly, my stress test went spiraling down in ignominy.

The next day was my echocardiogram. Piece of cake. Put some sensors on your chest and get a peek at your ticker. Kind of like an ultrasound expectant mothers take, except one gets to see their heart as opposed to a soon-to-be little human.

Since my regular stress test was a bust, I now get to have a procedure called a Nuclear Stress Test. Sounds fancy, doesn’t it? That’s because it is.

According to the Mayo Clinic, “A nuclear stress test is an imaging test that shows how blood goes to the heart at rest and during exercise. It uses a small amount of radioactive material, called a tracer or radiotracer. The substance is given by IV. An imaging machine takes pictures of how the tracer moves through the heart arteries. This helps find areas of poor blood flow or damage in the heart.”

So I have that to look forward to, which is nice. I’m not complaining, mind you. I would rather get a jump on any possible problems before they get unmanageable. It’s the same way I treat cancer tests. Take care of a problem while it is a small problem, not after it has grown to untreatable proportions.

Sorry if this column was short on the yuks, but I care about both my health and our country’s health. I promise – tomorrow will feature lighter fare.