Jeff Wysaski
“Insane? Sir, I have been a doctor for more than nine years. I assure you, I am no hack,” the physician retorted. “Well, I’ve never seen a sane doctor wearing an 18th-century tri-cornered hat before,” the patient said. “A hat? Oh, no! What a delightful misunderstanding. This is no hat,” the doctor answered. “It’s a bedpan.”
As Leonard held his newborn son in his arms, he couldn’t help but think about the future, and how great his life was going to be after he sold the baby and got all that money.
“How long has it been since your last physical?” the doctor asked. “Not since my college football days” I said. “Hmm,” he murmured with disapproval. “Okay, well put this gown on and I’ll be back in a minute.” Ashamed of my aging physique, I asked: “Is that really necessary?” “Yes,” he insisted. “My wife is broad-backed and I need to know if that dress is gonna make her look like a linebacker.”
The nurse’s hand jumped up to cover her mouth and she giggled with delight. Well, there’s no other way to interpret that – she was flirting with me, plain and simple. She was cute, so I decided to flirt back. “Why yes, my dear,” I said with a smile. “Halitosis does run in my family.”
As we all looked down at Daphne, covered in burns, the doctor reached over and turned off the machine. Finally, after all these days, her body relaxed and she was at peace. Looking back now, I don’t know why we didn’t turn that heavy metal CD off sooner.
No sooner had he sat down to eat, did his beeper go off. “Christ, not again,” he said as he shoved a handful of French fries into his mouth, reluctantly stood up and headed off towards the children’s ward. “How much pot can one kid smoke?” the drug dealer mumbled quietly to himself.
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