Doctor's Orders

“Hello Mr. Ward, I’m Jeff Gheurylla, the doctor on duty.”

“Gorilla?”

“Yeah, G-H-E-U-R-Y-L-L-A. Gheurylla.”

“Good Christ,” I said, and then paused. “That’s ridiculous!”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. What’s the problem?”

“Well-”

“Sharp pains in the keester?”

“Huh?”

“There are three steps to fixing this problem. First, a rectal exam, immediately followed by another rectal exam. And lastly, a colonoscopy.”

“What?”

“Buck up, chum! Seriously. Nurse!”

“Hold it, hold it, Gheurylla. This has gone far enough! I’ve had it with your GODDAMN orders. This place – this wretched hellhole with the peeling Dutch Boy yellow – it makes a sensitive patient like myself blanch, buckle over and fall onto the linoleum...if the linoleum weren't covered with six inches of reeking chum. I’ve had it! The cheap waiting room magazines, the undergarments, the sickly visage of Joan Armatrading...stand up and fight, punk! Make me regret every waking minute, why don’t ya! I collapse daily! I collapse daily into a giant mound of tube socks and sob until my tear ducts inflame to the size of limes. Try me, you phony!”