When you become a senior citizen and decide to move to Florida (that’s the law) to spend your retirement years, one thing is inevitable and that is that your calendar will now have ‘doctors visits’ scheduled on it throughout. It may be for a medical reason, a physical reason, a regularly scheduled checkup or for something that has sprung up down here like a plague – the ‘Pain Management’ doctor. You wake up in the morning and try to think of pretty flowers, butterflies and sunshine but your first few steps toward the bathroom makes you realize your true age and why you are in Florida. After your bathroom visit, you rush (who are you kidding?) to the medicine cabinet to look for your pain medication. Panic sets in when you realize that you only have one or two pills left and you start to look for your calendar to pencil in a call to the doctor so that he can renew the prescription. One such visit to a doctor happened to me lately.
I had undergone a surgery to correct a hernia. It was laparoscopic and was outpatient and so it was not a big deal. The surgery was evidently a success and I was scheduled for a post-op visit with the surgeon two months afterwards. When I visited the surgeon, we went through the routine chatter about how I was feeling and getting along. That’s when he told me to “drop ‘em” and when his nurse turned her back to me, I realized that he meant my underwear, especially when he began to put on his rubber gloves. After doing his imitation of a cheap hooker and playing with my testicles, he told me to cough. Considering that he now had me where he wanted me, I obeyed. When he started to take his gloves off, I asked him, “So Doc, will I live?” He looked down at my crotch again and said, “Yes, but why would you want to?”
There’s nothing worse than a snotty surgeon.