Sunday, April 27, 2014


Seasoned Medical Complaints

-(shouts) Don't say hello again! Put the phone to your good ear!

-Hello? Oh, I don't mean that. I'm hearing you loud and clear.

-Which practitioner are you complaining about today? Obviously
not an ear person.

-Never mind! I'm seeing the Cancer Impresario at four. I'll let
you know what he slices off with his laser.

-Can't wait. You know...even at your age people develop 

interests, hobbies?

-I should fly little airplanes down Lincoln Road?

-Anything! Spare me the medical bore. On and freakin on!

-Hey! What can I say? It's my whole life!

-Why don't you have a party for the Big-C Billionaire, the Dermo,
the Dentist, the...

-I get the idea. But I'm not treating them, they're treating me!

-Humor! Lame, but  valiant try from one nearly dead.

-All from Miami Beach, and I'm not even Jewish.

-Too bad. Then there'd be a tradition behind your abject misery.
A tremendous folklore from Russia and Poland. Artists who
translate tragedy to fiddles. And, add the thumping comedic
record coming down from the Yiddish theater.

-Okay! Okay! So there's nothing behind me except a succession
of sour and icy Puritans.

-Broke THAT tradition at least! You'll die doing it.

-As long as I can find it. I...tied a string!

-By God you’re laughing! Laughing!

-That's why I call you!

-I should go on the medical and psychiatric payroll.

-No room.

-I’ll serve for a dollar a year.

-Fifty cents!

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Life becomes one great appt with the doc...and endless conversations about same.
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