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Published September 03, 2013 More Info »
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Published September 03, 2013

For some reason, when doctors explain things to their patients, they say a lot of things that only doctors understand. To them, it all makes sense--but to us, it's pretty much meaningless. It would be better if they just told us, "Well, we looked at the inside of your knee with a fancy, expensive machine--and it turns out that you have a big ouchy. Not a big big ouchy, but a big ouchy. We need to fix it with our knives, glue, and magic. That'll be $27,000." Instead of saying that, a doctor will tell you, "As you can see in your XMRI, your knee's endometetangical T4 tendon is partially Nintendo-tagulated under the femuritus's jagerbomb located conveniently northwest of the 7-10 Jew bastard D'Brickashaw split. Yeah--I know what you're thinking. The tagulation isn't quagulated on the base ligament's underpitch, or by the Texaco tendon of the Mexican son of a bitch. That's why we should Johnny Walker your tendon's blue label, oscillate your ligament's Jewish interest rate, negroepack your entire kneecap, and tell my Panamanian neighbor to stop stealing my newspaper. Oh--and one more thing. This is very important, so listen. I hate blacks and Jews, and your left umbilical's jointavius is courvoisied on DeMarcus's dental ding dong ditch. Any questions?"

In two minutes, he'll say two dozen things that you won't understand--and he'll even sneak in a few hundred CCs of racism. Here's what he's really saying to you: "I went to Harvard Medical School. You didn't. While you were busy sleeping or watching Chandler drink coffee with Monica, I spent years studying medical textbooks until 3 a.m., eight nights a week. And now I know how tagulated and quagulated your knee is, while you don't know what those words mean. There's a reason why I drive a Mercedes and I'm Dr. Smith, while you drive a Honda and you're just Joe--you lazy, ignorant, newspaper-stealing Panamanian piece of shit."

Whenever a doctor gives me some sort of a medical explanation, I say, "Yeah--I know. T4 tendon, femuritus, jagerbomb, Mexicans. I know all that stuff. I made the same diagnosis before I walked in here. You're just my second opinion. I'm the first opinion. You have a Ph.D from Harvard? Well--my baloney has a first name. It's O-S-C-A-R."

How come any time you go to see a doctor, you have to wait? It's like the doctor's saying, "I told you to get here at 3:00. And you did. That's why I'm going to see you at 4:00. You'll have 10 minutes to fill out some forms that no one will look at. Then you'll have 40 minutes to sit around and read magazines about Jennifer Anniston and Kim Kardashian--like the celebrity obsessed lowlife that we all know you are. And then you'll go to a room with no magazines, and you'll spend ten minutes thinking about how I own your soul. Then I'll see you. And then you'll walk out with a prescription that no one will be able to read. And by the way--don't you ever even consider calling me or emailng me directly. If you want to contact me, it better be through a carrier pigeon."

A patient's hour long wait gives a doctor a lot of authority. As do a few other things.

Even if your doctor tells you you have "grade three Bullshitasitus," you'll go along with what he's saying. Because you know that if you disagree with him, he'll say, "You're going to take your opinion over mine? Who the hell are you? You have no Harvard degree, no stethoscope..." And then he'll look at your robe and say, "You're not even wearing any fucking pants! Why would you listen to yourself? You Harvard degreeless, stethoscopeless, pantless, Jewish, Panamanian son of a bitch!"

Whenever I get a doctor's bill, I call the doctor and say, "I got a second opinion from my accountant, and it turns out that you misdiagnosed my balance due. I owe you ten Colombian pesos--not ten thousand dollars. You were way off. Maybe you should go back to Harvard and study math for a few years."

One time, a hospital charged my friend $28,400 for a five day stay, including $27 for one Tylenol, and $2.08 for a Q-tip. When he left the hospital, I went to the movies with him. And when I got out of the theater's bathroom, he was holding three cokes and four bags of popcorn. I said, "What the hell is wrong with you? Why'd you get so much stuff?" And he told me, "I had to. These idiots are selling large popcorns for only $12."

What would happen if someone were to open a movie theater in a hospital. You'd have to get a mortgage on your lungs just to buy a pack of Raisinettes.

The other day, I was watching a reality show where some wealthy guy took his date to the hospital and said, "I'm not sick. I'm just really rich. I mean, why go to the Ritz-Carlton and pay $42 for papaya juice like some homeless person, when you can come here, pay $300 for a bucket of mud, and overdose on $27 Tylenol?"

Some people have a mental disorder that makes them pretend they have an illness or injury, just so they can get attention and sympathy. People like that love being examined by doctors. I'm not like that at all. I don't like how a doctor's visit is all about me. So whenever a doctor asks me something like, "How's your knee?" I say, "It hurts. How's your knee? Can you bend it? I'm gonna need you to cough for me a few times. It looks like you've been eating too much cheese. Open your mouth and say aaaah. Can I borrow $5,000? Take off your pants. License and registration, please. Where'd you buy those shoes? What's your mother's maiden name? When's the last time you had your tires rotated? Where were you on the night in question? I'm gonna need you to step out of the car. Camptown races sing this song. Have you been brushing your teeth? I want the truth! How come you never call me? I said cough, motherfucker! What's the point of this relationship? Is it going anywhere--or are you just having a good time with me? Get to the choppa! It's cold outside--put on a sweater! Did you hear what Angela said about what Gina said about Bianca? Uggh--I hate that bitch! No--not Bianca! Angela! I pity the fool. Pokemon--gotta catch em all! I just want to cuddle with you every once in a while. Can you bend your fucking knee or not?" And that's when my doctor writes me a prescription for painkillers, lithium, and a straitjacket.

Even when you're not at a doctor's office, the world still gives you medical diagnoses. Through channel 2, 3, 4, 5, this magazine, that magazine, this billboard, that billboard. A thousand ads tell you, "You have a pill deficiency. You need some pills. We have some pills. We have a pill for this thing, that thing, everything, nothing, knick knack, paddywack, give a dog a pill, give yourself a pill, give your mom a pill, give your dad a pill, give your child a pill, give your pill a pill, give your pill's pill a pill." Sometimes drug companies interrupt story time at kindergartens, and say, "Is your daddy a poo-poo head? Tell your mommy to get him Happydaddyselafin. Side effects might include a daddy who pee-pees a lot and forgets your birthday."

By law, drug commercials have to list a drug's side effects. But of course, they do it in a very nice, pleasant way. We hear nice, pleasant music throughout the ad. Someone with a nice, pleasant voice tells us how great the drug is. And then as the music continues, the narrator nicely and pleasantly adds, "Side effects might include nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, gonorrhea, pancreatic cancer, and death."

I think when they get to the side effects part, they should be forced to change the ad into some sort of horror film. A commercial will start off with its usual niceness and pleasantness. "Celeklerenol treats this, it treats that. It's so great. It can improve your life. You should use it." Then the music will change. "REEH! REEH! REEH! REEH!" And a guy with a hockey mask and chainsaw will say, "SIDE EFFECTS MIGHT INCLUDE GONORRHEA, DIARREAH, VOMITING, NAUSEA, PANCREATIC CANCER! IT MIGHT KILL YOU! And even if you don't get any side effects, I'll personally rip off your face off with a protractor." And then he'll take the chainsaw and slice off someone's head. Directed by Wes Craven.

Drug companies keep on making new pills for new uses. Whatever they come across, they try to turn it into a pill. Pretty soon, you'll see a commercial that says, "Why do yoga, when you can take yogatherenol? Why meditate, when you can take ommmoselafin? Why think, when you can take thinkegenastitherenol? Why wear a headcover and avoid pork, when you can take Islamabutrix or Judaismselamax? By the way, Islamabutrix should not be taken with Judaismselamax. Otherwise, your red and white blood cells will go to war against each other."

At some point, almost all of us will be on pills for almost everything. How are people going to keep track of so many pills? That'll be a main subject in school. Math, science, English, history, and pill management. "Johnny got an A in history--but he almost overdosed on thinkegenastitherenol. We better get him a pill management tutor."

Actually, our iPhones will manage our pills. And they'll also make recommendations based on the pills we're taking. An iPhone will tell someone, "Dude--you should totally take reeferhighomax, watch Cheech and Chong movies, and eat a bag of Cheetos. Side effects of Cheetos might include weight gain and orange tongue. By the way--there's a pill for that."

 

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