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October 29, 2010
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My doctor is an idiot. I had a checkup this week, the kind where they do all the normal grabbing and smacking around of stuff. My doctor looks like a fat unkept baby with glasses and a silver curly wig. He has a high-pitched tenor voice, and he hums Lutheran hymns while he works on all my gears and guts. He usually switches to 'Amazing Grace' when it's drop em' n' cough for me time. I hate listening to old men hum, especially when they are sitting on a short stool with wheels, two inches from my bare business in a cold room...

He always tries to make me feel more comfortable by saying, "You know, son... this is not a big deal. I do this all day, every day."

I always have to clarify by saying, "I'm not your son. And this is a big deal. I don't do this all day, every day."

At moments like this, I can't help but fixate on the jar of flimsy wooden tongue depressors sitting on his pink pastel counter top, and imagine myself inserting one in his face. While humming Lutheran hymns. And saying, "You know... this isn't a big deal. I do this all day, every day."

The jar of wooden tongue depressors is sitting next to a 3D model of the female reproductive system. It's colorful, and has several moving parts. The way it's presented makes it look like some kind of action figure. I could picture myself as a school boy grabbing it when they left me alone in the room, and engaging in an epic battle against its arch-nemesis, the male reproductive system 3D model... which looked like Squidward's nose with two half-filled mini water balloons dangling from it. Almost an exact replica. How do you become a reproductive system 3D model sculptor? Seems like those would be long days.

He eventually wraps up the 150-point inspection by asking me if there is anything that I've been noticing with my body lately. I usually say, "no... I'd just like to leave now. I feel like you just dug around to the bottom of my jar of jelly beans, and now I know I have to eat the rest of them while knowing that your hand touched most of them, but not knowing where your hand has been. I assume it's been in a variety of filthy places."

However, I was curious about blood. I asked him how the blood in my feet gets back up into other areas, like my face.

I don't want my foot blood mixing with my brain blood. I want to keep the two separate. Along with several other areas. Look, I don't need the same quality of blood in my feet as I do in my brain and face. There are some days that go by when I feel like my entire brain is full of my foot blood, instead of brain blood, because I sit around staring blankly at nothing, waiting for something to happen. That's what feet are supposed to do. Brains are supposed to be smart, and faces are supposed to move around and look like faces, not feet. On days like that, I am as smart as a foot. I'd like to avoid this moving forward.

He told me that isn't possible, and that all of my blood moves around my entire body, and there's nothing that I can do to compartmentalize my blood.

I told him that I would get a second opinion, and that our business was done here. I also told him that he's too old school, and that fast-moving times would soon put him and his caveman philosophies out of business. I told him that after I've had my surgery to keep my blood in specific blood zones, I would march into his lemonade stand of an office, kick over his fish tank, steal his reproductive system 3D models, and open-mouth kiss his receptionist on the way out.

He paused, stared at my forehead for a second, said "...hm", and then turned around and hymnal-hummed his unkept old baby face out of the room.

I put my pants back on, paid my $35 co-pay on the way out, and had a miserable day.

Until next time: Don't trust anyone with crotch action figures, or [...something that rhymes with "crotch action figures"]

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