Paul goes to the doctor, sans the turning and coughing

Well, tomorrow I get to go to the doctor. The quack. The old geezer with the cold stethoscope. At least it's not a physical. I hate physicals. As far as I'm concerned, no man should ever touch my balls. Ever.

No, this appointment is to see if I'm mentally unstable or retarded. Well, not really, but that's what I like to tell people. That way, in future conversations they always look at me with a hint of distrust, carefully but inconspicuously staring at the corners of my mouth to see if I'm drooling while I talk.

Actually, I just have trouble concentrating. It's difficult to focus on what I'm doing, whether it be during work or at home writing this column. It's a bit annoying, and can be stressful, so I've decided to get it checked out. Don't get me wrong; I always get my work done, just like I always write this column, but it's the method I use to get things done that can be troublesome and stressful. I tried giving up caffeine to see if it would help me concentrate and get things done faster, but that didn't work. So now I'm off to see the doctor.

When I made the appointment, I figured they'd run some blood tests, ask me some dumb questions, and punch me in the face to test my reflex skills. I figured I'd be done in an hour or so. Wrong. Apparently, this appointment requires a 30-minute consultation, followed by three hours of testing. Three hours. Who am I, Hitler? I may be retarded, but I'm not "three hours worth of analysis" retarded.

I can tell you one thing, though. If they try to give me the "ink blot test", or some other Freudian technique, hilarity will ensure.

Doctor: And vhat do you zee here, Mizster Ryan?

Paul: I see a squirrel giving birth to a retarded baby.

Doctor: And how does you know zee baby squirrel iz retarded?

Paul: Who said anything about a baby squirrel? I said the squirrel was giving birth to a baby.

The doctor probably won't have a stereotypical accent like that, but it would be fun if he did. An Australian accent would also be fun. "G'day, mate! What be troublin' ya in ye noggin'? Is it ye wullybumpers and warbles, or are ya just feelin' dumpy because of the chollygaggers and dondelingers? Doncha worry, mate. We'll have ya feelin' bully with no worries right nicely."

That, and maybe Britney Spears will be the nurse. Yeah, I'd say those two things have about an equal chance of happening.

Anyway, if the doctor prescribes something, I hope I can use a pen and change the prescription to morphine. That would just make work fly by. Of course, it would also make it difficult to stand up, talk without giggling, or go to the bathroom anywhere but in my pants. But hey, if I don't remember it the next day, that means it never happened, right? Sweet.

Well, I'm off to bed. I have to get up early and see the doctor tomorrow. Keep your fingers crossed for a hot nurse and a prescription of "drink more alcohol."

Friday Drink Recipe. Well, well, well, you want another drink, do you? Can you drive? How many fingers am I holding up? Eleventy-five? I'll tell you what. If you promise to throw up in the cab instead of in here, I'll give you one more. It's called a "Southern Doctor".

3 oz. Southern Comfort
1 can Dr. Pepper
Mason jar

Mix the SoCo and the Dr. Pepper in the mason jar, add some ice, and you're done.

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Updated today: Thursday Surprise
(Flash movie: "Bush Techno")

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Reader Comments

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TractorInc      Sep 12, 2003 • 5:14pm   You know, for five bucks I could have told you what was wrong... you have what is known as "pornous overloadus". The fix: get rid of those wheelbarrows full of porno you have lying around the house.

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