I endorse every last word of Kettle's piece, including 'and', 'I' 'the', and 'a'.
I got gout, bad.
When I was first diagnosed with gout in 2015, my reaction was, 'Gout? What the fuck am I, an 18th century English lord eating too much mutton and drinking too much port?'.
Gout happens when uric acid builds up in the joints. The acid dries and leaves behind razor sharp microscopic crystals. Those crystals are in one's joints, interacting with cartilage and soft tissue. Gout is not an ache. Gout is not a sore. Aches and sores are mere Trinity blasts compared to gout's 50 Megaton Tsar Bomba.
Below, painted in 1799 by James Gillray, is as good a visual representation of gout as one will find:
The claws are a nice touch.
Last month NY Mets outfielder, Jay Bruce, was out with mere plantar fasciitis, something from which we also suffer. Bruce is a pussy.
As far as pain threshold goes, Gout is about on par with childbirth. You can look that up.* My first podiatrist asked, 'How the hell did you even walk in here?' To which I replied, 'I have will of iron and you will refer to me as Drago.'
These days I get gout about every six weeks, regardless of precautions - including avoiding alcohol and red meat. Which leaves me just loving life, the universe, and everything. Might as well just have the fucking hamburger at this point.
*I will respond to any challenge by any mother, any time, any place on the issue. You can take your pain of child bearing and stick it with your yoga pants, sensible sneakers, and glass of chardonnay.