Here is a picture of the resident, Young Dr. Jeff, who was in charge of my care during my recent hospital stay. In this photo, he is searching for the treatment protocol for cellulitis. He never did find it, but he kept looking for everything up there.
He did aid me in reaching the conclusion that I should not become a spy. Now I know that if an enemy initiated any fingernail type torture I'd be willing to rat out my mother within the first nanosecond. Dr. Jeff lacks the ability to obtain effective local anesthesia; I hope to never see Young Dr. Jeff out in the real world, because I will probably pulverize his dominant index finger with a hammer, make a few small incisions along either side of it, then jam some gauze packing though what's left. Then I'll ask him if he has plans for Thanksgiving, and what kind of pie he likes. Then for good measure, I'll give him a wedgie with his red plaid boxers that seemed to always be showing. motherfucker.
Naturally I didn't have any worries about the children and the homefront, not with Archie Bunker there to tend to matters. He only really got angry once, which was when I refused to come down to the hospital lobby (IV pole in tow and ass out) so he could drop the kids off with me for a few hours; he had to go buy everyone new clothes because he couldn't figure out how to work the washing machine. Oh well....at least he didn't sell them into slavery or anything. Upon my homecoming, the kids were alive & well, sticky, filthy, and sick of pizza. N. is still clinging to me like a barnacle, but this hopefully will soon pass.
No comments:
Post a Comment