That conversation with my doc went something like this:
Doc: Do you own firearms?
Me: Sure do.
Doc: Do you have a permit?
Me: Don't need a permit in the states where I'd be caught dead. Do you mean a Conceal Carry Permit?
Doc: Yes.
Me: Yes.
Doc: Are you carrying now?
Me: Right now, no, but I'm in my underwear.
Doc: Were you carrying when you came into the room?
Me: Yeah.
Doc: Did you pay attention to the sign out front forbidding firearms?
Me: I did. I also paid attention to the fact you don't have any means for protecting me while I'm on the premises. An armed guard would be nice.
Doc: (Gasp!)
Me: Do you want to see? (Reaching for my vest)
Doc: No. That's all right.
Me: Look, Doc. You've got me down as morbidly obese, right? Look at it this way: if we ever have an active shooter come by while I'm getting checked up, you and the rest of the office can use me as a shield while I shoot our way to the exit. There's a silver lining to every cloud.
Doc: Let's talk about your blood sugar.
