Dear diary,
After my successful foray into cinema, I decide to switch careers and become a medical professional, because my primary interest is in helping people. And it turns out that I’m inherently qualified to practice medicine, on account of my good looks.
“Doctor Bryan,” a nurse knocks on my office door, “are you decent?” Then, without waiting for an answer, she enters and announces my very first patient.
“Come in, come in,” I say, holding my arms out invitingly while sitting in the swivel chair at my desk. “I’ve been bored out of my mind, waiting here all day with no sick folks to heal. Probably my business will pick up soon, but, for now, it’s pretty slow, because my name is still unknown. Just wait until I become a famous, top-dollar surgeon — THEN the ailing multitudes will not ignore me: no, just watch: they’ll be knocking down my door and saying ‘Please amputate my honor: it hath offended me’; or, ‘Heal my husband: he is SO stupid.’ Alright, now what seems to be the problem, little one?”
The patient, who is a nondescript human adult devoid of all sexual characteristics (simply flat and smooth everywhere, without even nipples), answers: “Well, doc, you see, I get these pains in my hunger-sector about every few hours after I eat. So I think I have cancer.”
“Let’s take a look under the hood,” I say, rolling forward in my chair. “Remove thy hood.”
The patient opens his or her hinged hood and I take a good look at the engine. “Yes, it’s just what I imagined. You DO have cancer.”
“Ah shit, that’s what I feared,” sez the patient. “Well, is it operable?”
“No, it is not,” I say, closing the hood and making sure that it latches; “just go home and enjoy what life you have left. Play with your dog. Bask in the sun.”
“Yikes — it sounds like you’re prescribing a day at the beach,” he or she replies. “And you advise ‘playing with my dog’, but I don’t even have a dog. All I own are four children who depend upon me for survival, because their father died during childbirth — would it be permissible to substitute these human beings for the aforesaid housepet?”
“Only if they’re caged,” I say. “No, I’m kidding — just go purchase a dog from the Pet Shop at the Mega Mall. They sell frisbees there, too, if I remember correctly. Then donate your children to some charity — any charity will do: they’ll eventually ship them to the CIA: the U.S. Intel Agencies will know what to do with spare kids. Then you can take a much-deserved trip to the beach with your new dog, and toss the frisbee from a lawn chair. Get yourself a one-piece swimsuit, too — you have a great figure, like a perfect doll. Lie on the sand and throw the frisbee into the ocean; let your dog run after it, and watch the waves crash upon him. Then die in your sleep. It will be pleasant to merge with Lord Krishna and escape the Wheel of Existence. Give me a telephone call, when you get there.”
I now swivel around in my chair to face my desk, and I proceed to scribble the above advice down on a prescription form illegibly. Then I sign it with a paw print, signifying that it is approved by Tyger Bryan the Doctor.
“Thanks!” sez my first patient ever, receiving the prescription form in his or her hand; “I’ll bring this immediately to the druggist on my street corner.”
“Bye-bye,” I wave. My nurse then shows the intruder out to the exit.
Now a second patient lurks forth from the shadows:
“Help me, I can’t stop blinking,” she sez.
“That’s cuz your eyes will dry up if you stare too long,” I explain. “Here, look at this,” I hold up the human skull that I keep on my desk. “See these?” I poke repeatedly at the eye sockets of the skull. “We need to operate immediately.”
I call my nurse into the office, and she shows up wearing her uniform with no undergarments. I can tell that she has neglected to wear undergarments because I am sporting my X-ray spectacles. I now remove my X-ray specs and shout: “We need a flat table and many saws.”
My nurse wheels in the other swivel chair from the waiting room and sits down, crossing her legs and writing frantically on a legal pad.
“What are you writing about?” I ask, sincerely curious.
“Here,” she turns the pad so that I can see its contents.
“Is that poetry?” I ask, turning the pad upside down and then sideways, while squinting my eyes.
“Those are the detailed instructions about how to perform the operation that you’re claiming shall improve this woman’s life.” The nurse nods to Patient #2, in order to jog my memory.
“Oh, yes, of course!” I say. “Thank you so much. Yes indeed, I’ll use this step-by-step plan to get rid of the disease that threatens to do you in,” I wink at my second-ever patient.
So we successfully remove the lungs of Jane Doe Number Two, and she finds that her breathing has never been easier: no longer is there any fleshy obstruction when she tries to harrumph.
Then a third patient hears the word that I’m a good doctor who doesn’t charge an arm and a leg for my services — only a couple lungs, or a pig-heart (if you have one) — and he enters my office crying repeatedly: “I lost my mind.”
So I help this guy find his brain, and he thanks me so profusely that I need to rid myself of his presence by zapping him with a laser gun.
Customer Four is a seventy-year-old man who wants his baby teeth removed.
“I’m not a dentist,” I cry. “Get outta here, punk.”
But he weeps, which plays deftly upon my heartstrings, so I say: “Fine, come to papa.” So he lies down before me and lets me wiggle each tooth individually; and I discover that every single one of them is loose; so I use a technique of hard-pulling to yank each milk-tooth from his jaws with my two bare hands.
“Next!” I shout. And, while shouting this, I receive from my nurse a postcard that just arrived in the mail: it is from the patient who left my office an instant ago. He claims that all his adult teeth have already grown in, and now he can (I’m quoting directly from his testimony) “eat celery like a pro.”
I write back “Glad to hear that you are recovering. Pay my bill soon.”
Then a glob of lava shaped sort of like a human enters my office and explains that although he doesn’t have an appointment, he would greatly appreciate two squirts of champagne. So I grab my perfume bottle from the desk drawer where I keep all my toiletries; then I dump out its contents and fill it back up with cheap wine. I now shout at the lava glob: “Open up!” and, when it does, I carefully give it half a squirt. When it asks for one more, I give it another half a squirt. Thus, the lava thinks that it received a double helping of champagne, when, in fact, it was a single dose of boxed wine. — That’s called Medical Science 101.
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