Dr. Dr.

I stopped into a 24 hour emergency clinic on the way home from work today. I liked the fact that it was open 24 hours. The thing that caught my attention though, was the fact they identified themselves as an “emergency” clinic. After they took my vital signs, the visit with the physician went something like this:

“What seems to be the problem Sir?”

“I’m sad.”

“You are sad? Do you mean that you are depressed?”

“No you fucking retard, I just said that I was having a heart attack.”

“Sir, I will advise you to watch your language. I want to mention as well that you did not tell you me you were having a heart attack. You said that you were sad. Besides, your vital signs are normal.”

“Oh.”

I am not normally so rude, not so often this juevenille in my rapport with people. The Dr seemed understanding. At least he would give me the benefit of the doubt.

“Well, why don’t you tell me a little more about your problem.”

“I think I broke up with the wrong girl, and now I miss her.”

“Do you love her her?” the Dr asked, a small smile appearing on his face.

“I don’t know, I just miss her.”

“Do you love the new girl, the one you are with now?” He was really probing, matters of the heart are funny, so I guess he wanted to issue a precise diagnosis.

“She says that loves me and that she can’t stop thinking about me, plus she’s fine.”

“Young man, I am a medical Dr and this is an emergency clinic. You are giving me vague answers and it’s possible that you are having psychological problems, maybe I can refer you to.... “

“La la la la la la la!” I had my hands over my ears. I careened my face forwards, with my eyes wide, making exaggerated motions with my lips.

He remained calm, still smiling he said “There is a psychologist in the adjacent building. Perhaps a visit with him might prove more...”

“LA LA LA LA LA LA!” I had interrupted him again. Same expressions and gestures, but louder now. This time he laughed. Laughing was good, better than calling the authorities on me.

“What exactly do you want me to do for you?” The Dr asked.

“Do you sell dolls?”

“I beg you pardon? Do we sell, dolls?” This time he looked legitimately confused.

“Yes, I would like a doll. She needs to be about 5' 1", cute figure, big smile... And she MUST have long black wavy hair.”

“What would you like this doll to say?” He was really humoring me now, as if he hadn’t been all along.

“She can say alternately, ‘Whatever!’ and ‘Jackie Rocks!’ but she MUST be able to say ‘Eat My Shorts!’ ”