He Had It Coming, Your Honor
This past week as Mr. Man and I lounged around our sprawling estate, I realized that my life is just way too laid back. What with our perfect children, our incredible level of financial independence and perfect hard bodies, I felt inspired to do something to shake things up a bit.
"Hey, Mr. Man," I said to my sweet Baboo, "What do you say we get up real early in the morning and drive two hours to a hospital as big as Disney World so I can get their Monday Thyroid Biopsy Special? I think that would be a hoot."
"Why sure, Honey," said Man. "I think that'd be just a swell idea. Let's do that."
And so we did. We woke up at dawn, picked out the perfect matching his and her outfits and had our driver take us to the big city while we drank champagne in the back of the limo.
"Ms. Crazy On Your Face, how lovely to see you," said my physician. "Before we begin, let me tell you a little about the procedure. I will be taking samples of fluid from the lumps in your swan-like neck, which will require the use of several needles of varying lengths. You're in charge, so if you feel any discomfort, just tell me and I'll stop."
"Say, Doc. What about the use of some sort of numbing agent for this possible discomfort of which you speak?" I asked.
"Oh, I don't like to use those kinds of medicines before this type of procedure. I find it makes my job more difficult and I'm way too important to have to work hard," said Dr. Evil. "Besides, you'll be fine".
Everyone in the room agreed that what is most important in a situation like this one is keeping it simple for the doctor.
Before I knew it, Dr. Demento placed a pillow under my shoulders and tilted my head backwards as far as it could go. It was as close as I had come to doing a back bend since I was fifteen and trying to impress the testosterone carriers of East Rutherford High.
"Just relax, Dear. But no matter what, do not move one tiny, tiny bit or else something terrible and irreversible could happen to you. And of course, I have no intentions of telling you what that is, so it'll be a complete surprise." he said. "Ok. Here comes the first little stick."
"Excuse me, Doctor," I said calmly. I think you have confused me with another patient. I'm not here to have the 'Bic ink pen jammed in your throat' biopsy."
"Are you feeling some discomfort?" he asked.
"Why, yes. Now that you mention it, I am."
"Mr. Man, would you come sit beside your overdramatic woman and allow her to hold your hand for support before we begin again?" I took Mr. Man's hand in mine, and drew in a deep breath just like Dr. Torture advised in order to lessen my discomfort. As everyone knows, breathing in and out is every bit as good as a morphine drip. Sometimes, if I don't carefully monitor my breathing at home, I get good and stoned.
"Ok. A little stick again."
"Wow. That's odd," I calmly said to Doc Devil. "When you said 'little stick' I didn't realize you were talking about the one you had picked up from your backyard at home. I'm going to need you to remove the oak branch you have thrust into my neck as it is entirely unpleasant."
"Are you feeling discomfort?" the sorry son of a cherry picker asked.
"In fact, I am," I answered. "And judging by the tears streaming down Mr. Man's face, I'm guessing he is feeling a certain level of discomfort as a result of the large number of bones I have shattered in his hand."
"Nurse Torture, would you mind giving me the biggest needle you can possibly find for my third stick?" Dr. Satan instructed. "If you can't find one at least a foot long, call my wife and ask her to bring something from the private collection I keep in my chamber...uh, I mean my basement."
And so with what resembled a sharp railroad spike hovering over my face, he reminded me again to relax. Once more I heard those magic words, "Little stick."
What happened next you will likely hear more about when I am interviewed by Diane Sawyer from my prison cell. Let's just say I may have caused him a slight amount of discomfort when I attached his Sphynomanometer to his family jewels and ever so gently put his Otoscope in some place other than his ear.
Hey, it's not like I didn't warn him. "Take a deep breath, Big Boy," I said. "You're about to feel a little stick."
Sher Bailey is a freelance writer living somewhere in the midwest, very likely in a trailer park or a van down by the river. Quite the recluse, she makes only the occasional appearance in the Moon Pie section of Wal-Mart or at road side stands that sell pictures of Elvis on crushed velvet. Read more at http://www.Wiping-The-Crazy-Off-My-Face.com.
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