A Typical Day in the Doctor's Office
'm a doctor. No, change that. I'm a certified professional. A doctor is a guy who cares about your well-being, and wants you to get better soon because he doesn't like to see people suffer. I, on the other hand, fulfill only half of that. I mean, sure, I care about your well-being. No one is more overjoyed than I am to find that you make a lot of money! The more the merrier, I always say! And I don't like to see people suffer, either, because the longer you're in agony, the longer it takes for me to get paid. It's a real pity.
You know, I really shouldn't have told you that. Because, see, now you're gonna sit there and cheer as I get battered and abused in every way, shape, and form. Whaddaya mean, "doctoring isn't a dangerous job?" I'll get battered and abused if I want to, smarty pants!
Where was I? Oh yeah, that's right. So anyway, let me tell you about yesterday. . .(Doodle- doodle, flashback effect, yadda yadda yadda. . .)
I trotted into my office that morning and passed my secretary's desk. "Hey, there, hot lips," I said. "How's it shakin' in babeville?"
"Your first patient is here to see you, you worthless, perverted sack of hormone-driven sex- ism." I always love these morning chats with my secretary.
I toddled into my office where I found my first patient. He was slumped over in his chair with bandages wrapped all over him. "H-help. . .me!" he sputtered.
"Alllllllrightythen!" I said, plunking into my big, comfortable, manly chair. "What's wrong with you?"
"Uuuuuugh. . ."
"Okay, I'll have to do a diagnostic test," I said to my uncooperative patient. I reached into my desk and pulled out my little toy tricorder and waved it at him. Just to make it look like I was really doing something, I pushed a few buttons and my tricorder made some funny noises.
"Hm," I said, donning my best Captain Picard expression. "This little medical thingy says you've got heavy atmospheric disturbance and your warp core is about to breach."
"H-help me, d-d-doctor!" he groaned.
"Do you mind?" I said, annoyed. "I'm playing with my Star Trek toys. Can't this wait?"
"Uuuuuugh. . ." he mumbled, then fell forward out of his chair.
With an annoyed sigh, I stood up. "All right, if it can't wait. Take some of this. . ." I reached into my supply closet and grabbed a bottle. "Take some of this diuretic, and don't call me in the morning."
I stuffed the diuretic in the guy's pocket. Then I grabbed him by the arm and dragged him out the door. There I gave him a good heave-ho, which sent the poor guy flying across the street. "Hey, that's five hundred bucks you owe me," I called after him. "Hypochondriac."
I went back inside and grabbed a couple of tissues out of my secretary's tissue box. I used them to clean off my hands, then to blow my nose in. "Who's next, foxy?" I asked as I put the tissues back in the box.
"It's a guy who's complaining about constant vertigo," she said. "He's in your office now, you filthy little pig."
I trotted into my office to find a little fat guy sitting in front of my desk. I took a seat behind the monstrous wooden thing and asked, "What can a charge ya for?"
"Can you cure my vertigo?" the guy asked.
"That depends," I said. "Do you have oodles and oodles of money?"
"I sure do," he said excitedly. "I'm really fat and I'm not saying that because I'm morbidly obese!"
I decided I like this guy's style so I cured him. He was right, though. He did have oodles and oodles of money. And he was fat, too.
My next client was an old lady named Mrs. Periwinkle. She bounced into my office and sat down in the chair in front of me, quivering. "Doctor, doctor!" she said. "That crazy old coot, Ronald the Repairman, practically leveled my entire house! Do you have anything for psychological trau- ma?"
"You mean besides a lawsuit?" I asked. "Well, just this, I guess." I took out a bottle of, uh, something, and gave it to her. The old lady took it, flipped a few hundred on the table, and left.
A little later, I pulled out my container of Pepto Bismol to calm my nerves. I took a swig, but it tasted funny. Sorta like a toxic dump. Oh no! Mrs. Periwinkle had walked off with my Pepto!
I got up and walked over to my secretary. "Hey, babes," I said. "Can you wiggle your little booty down to the drug store and pick me up some Pepto Bismol?"
"Get lost, you big, hairy ape. I'm busy living in the twentieth century. When are you?"
"Never mind, babykins," I said. "Who else do I have to put up with today?"
"Well, cave man, you've got a comatose guy in your office, waiting for treatment."
"How did he get in there if he's comatose?" I asked smugly.
My secretary jumped to her feet and started yelling, "He's comatose, not dead, you mal- practicing moron!
Ducking, I ran into my office and slammed the door. The comatose guy was in the chair, barely sitting up.
"Okay, make it quick," I said. "I wanna go home to my wife sometime tonight." The guy just grunted.
"Well, uh, what cures, er, comatoseness?"
The comatose guy gurgled and started drooling. Grabbing a bucket, I put it underneath his mouth to catch the spit. After staring at me for about a half an hour, the drooling, comatose guy suddenly snapped up.
"Listen, you dope of a doctor," he said. "I'm trying to get out of work here, okay? Now gimme a freakin' excuse note that says I'm too comatose to work, okay?"
"Uhhh," I said. With no other option, I grabbed a glass of water and threw it in the guy's face.
"What did you do that for, you nincompoop?" he demanded. "I'm not comatose anymore!"
"You looked a little dehydrated." I said. "Want some more?" I ran out into the hall and re- filled the glass.
"No," said the formerly comatose guy as I returned to the office. "I don't want any m-" I threw the water in his face, drenching him. Enraged, my (im)patient got out of his chair and started chasing me in circles around my office. Eventually, he managed to get me scrunched up on top of his bookshelf.
"Come down from there so I can perforate you!" my patient screamed.
"Hey, man," I said. "Be reasonable. Wait, I got an idea. Let's malinger together!"
The crazed guy started to slow his breathing down. "Sounds okay with me. Now, come down from there."
"Duhhhh, okay."
The two of us walked out of the office, chatting like old pals. As we walked past my secret- ary's desk, she stopped us.
"Just where do you think you're going?" she asked.
I looked at my new friend and asked, "Do you want to do the honors?"
"Certainly," he said to me. Then he turned to my secretary and said, "Hey baby. Put on some- thin' cute and I may let you come with us!"
"What about the rest of your patients, dog meat?" asked the secretary.
"Uh, tell �em to take a 60-minute shot of, um, carbon monoxide," I said. "That's what I'd do." And with that, my new friend and I toddled off to the bar, laughing.
