Reasons

I apologize for the prolonged hiatus. My medical posts would be so much better were I not so dependent upon my job. The job enables me and my family to have shelter, clothing and food...and beer. Grab a brew, smoke your cigarette, take a hit off your bong, sit back, relax and enjoy.

Instead of citing the countless reasons for which my services may be in need, I will review the opposite. Daily, I wish I could beat my head against the wall after bantering with my peeps regarding their trivial reasons for their visit. Let's not get the wrong idea here. Legitimate chest pain, abdominal pain, stroke symptoms, and the inability to remove a foreign object from one's rectum are all valid motives to frequent my ER. However, do not waste my time with the following:

Boredom

Hard to believe, yes, but it is true. The 25-year-old bipolar chick has absolutely nothing to do at 4:30 am, so she comes to visit bringing along her powers of persecution. She may say she has chest pain or abdominal pain. She may state she has the worst headache of her life. I know better. I am not stupid. I may not be shrewd, but biploar chick cannot delude me. She has no friends, her boyfriend just passed her herpes along to the next desperate fool, her family despises her, and she abhors her life. Misery loves company. BPC is bored, she is awake, has countless free time. She reckons...

"I want to make other people despondent, just like me. I wonder who is awake?"

A lightbulb flickers in her peabrain and she realizes those idiots that work in the ER are conscious at 4:30am. She fabricates a complaint that has potential to be life-threatening, then ruins my shift. I know she is out to get me.

Pregnancy Test

Yes, inconceivable. I have touched on this one to some degree in a previous post. However, the 19-year-old chick with three kids believes she may be impregnated by father number four. She uses her one remaining neuron, purchases a home pregnancy test, and then does not trust the result. She wants to go to the ER for verification. To make matters worse, she has no complaints. She is pain-free. Her cervix stopped dripping weeks ago. Potential father number four has not pummeled her in weeks and none of her friends are currently under my care. She has absolutely no reason to sign-in. Why should that stop her? She registers and wants a blood pregnancy test. Peeing on a stick was not enough. Listen dunderhead, the blood sample I take and send to the lab has the same hormone that your whiz contains. I am going to give you the same result. Wait, I know the answer, you just wanted a $2,000 pregnancy test. You want debt. Go home, tell father number 4 that he will now be a daddy for the 7th time.

Transportation

What do you mean? You do not understand? To my sole subscriber, read on. I have had plenty of patients that were "stuck" miles from their next destination. Not having money for a taxi, bus, or a rickshaw and not wanting to hitch-hike, free-ride-dude has an epiphany. Keep in mind, these people do not own cars.

"I'll call 911"

FRD dials the magic numbers, EMS arrives. FRD states his little toe on his right foot has been sore for three months, and wants to be "checked out." He is 20 miles from his next destination, can be seen at three other hospitals that are closer, but insists on coming to The House of God. He really does not want to come to my abode because we are more competent than the other hospitals. For he has a drug deal to complete a few blocks away and calling EMS was the fastest and most cost-effective route. What about the $450 bill for the taxi? No fear, he will never pay. Those that actually pay taxes will flip the bill.

Clothing and Salon Treatments

I'll be blunt. Do not come to my house and demand free clothing. I see your socks. Those socks with the rubber stoppers on the bottom came from the hospital down the street. I do not care if your current socks have holes and have not been washed in weeks. I refuse to peel off those scabies infected garments and replace them. I am also not going to give you scrubs. You are not a doctor, nurse, tech, etc. The only affiliation you have with the medical field is that you abuse me and my staff weekly. Go ahead ask for scrubs. I am going to give you paper ones, the kind you cannot wash; not that you would clean them anyway. Paper scrubs in no way can be comfortable to wear. What comes around goes around, I will now torture you, as you have done to my staff.

I work in a hospital. My nurses work in a hospital. Theme here? We will not wash your hair. Do not expect that we will bathe you (especially not me). I know you stink. I know you are not able to pick all the lice out of your own hair. I know you were too lazy to get off the couch and just peed your pants. I know you think I am a giant piece of toilet paper. For Halloween, I like to wrap myself in a roll of toilet paper. When one asks about my costume, I just tell them I am an Emergency Physician and wipe tushies for a living. I digress. Your family can de-lice and de-dirt your rancid body. Lack of hygiene is not a legitimate reason to frequent my domicile.

Work Excuse

So, you have had a cough for three weeks, who really cares? Do you really think I am going to buy that one? I know you were out snorting cocaine and imbibing O'E all night long. You are still sauced and high. Should your boss see you in your current condition, you would no longer be employed, right? I know all you want is a work excuse so you can take your lazy fundament back to bed. Get out of my ER and do not come back, I am not in the mood for your games.

I am sure I am missing some other examples, but for now, my venting is over. I feel much better. Hope all is well in everyone's world.

For now...OneDood Done.

Stupidity

If only I could share my experiences from last night. My fellow reader would be on the floor laughing. However, due to HIPPA laws and a fear of losing my job, I cannot disclose last night's encounter.

I'll give you a hint. Wrigley Field and a device for an infusion.

That is it. No more.

Hope all is well in your world, keep in touch.

OneDood...Done

Making Friends at Costco

My two children and I ventured to Costco the other day. If my reader recalls, they are named Chick and Dude. Goodie asked that I replenish our supply of milk, it is hormone free (I can really tell the difference). I love Costco adventures. Besides spending more money than planned, I typically will consume a day's caloric requirement during my short stay.

I plop Chick and Dude into the cart and away we go. We pass the televisions that I yearn to purchase, fly by the Wii games that call my name, "Dr. OneDood, please insert me." Sounds pretty freaky, let's stop there.

The three of us pick up some yogurt and cookie samples, devour a few pieces of pizza, taste cereal and nuts, funnel a few power drinks, and finally find our way to the refrigerated area. There, we scoop up some Skim and 2%. Passing the cookie lady, modeling her hair net once again, then grabbing a bag of Vienna Beef Bagel Dogs, we make a beeline to the checkout area. Then we wait. And we wait. Remember the last post? I love to wait. However, this time, I make the most of it. I devise a plan.

Let's recall. I have three items, totaling less than $20. It takes less than a minute for register-dude to tally our items. Accounting for the wait and check out time, that was all I needed. We make our way to the exit and my thoughts begin to vocalize. I say to Chick (she is 5+ and can converse, as opposed to Dude that is less than 3 and just agrees with his sister), "do you care about the smiley face?"

To my reader that has never frequented Costco, here is how one exits the massive edifice. After you cram thirty two items into and under your cart and after which you then present cash, AmEx or a debit card at the register, you have to wait on line to exit. At the egress you will then encounter some brainiac that is employed to check the items in your cart and then match them to your receipt.

Again, if you have never been to Costco, the only items you can add to your cart after leaving the register and before passing through the gateway to freedom is a hot dog or a Coke; I do not believe a receipt is given. I guess if you really wanted, you could hold up the custumer service dudette and steal a recently returned item.

I wonder how many patrons have paid for their provenders et al, stashed their cart out of security's sight, picked up an XBox that was just lying around, hid it under the recently purchased Gatorade, and made a mad dash for their car. After which, they evaded the police and the 300 pound hairy gorilla that attempted to run them down? I bet zero, but what do I know?

Back to my initial warped thought pattern. If you have kids, and they happen to accompany you to Costco, hopefully you make it through the giant maze without a break-down. You and the rug rats then have to encounter receipt-checker-dude, no matter how difficult the trek. If anyone is getting an education right now, RCD does not discriminate, he checks everyone, child or childless. RCD visually verifies all of your purchases against your invoice. If you have kids en tow, he with his green high-lighter, will draw a smiley face on the back of the printed transaction. He then will hand it to the lucky snot-fisted child. This makes most kids happy.

My two could care less and I knew that. After the thirty plus smiley faces, it gets old.

Getting back to our conversation.

"Chick, do you care about the silly smiley face?

"What smiley face?"

"The one on the receipt. Do you really care if the man draws a smiley face?"

"Huh?"

"Chick, the man will draw a smiley face on the receipt. You have seen it countless times, and between you and me, your smiley faces are much more artistic."

"Huh daddy, what are you talking about? I just want to go home and watch Super Why."

"Chick, do you care about the smiley face or can we just pass the man and go to our car, Alpha Pig is about to start."

"Let's get home daddy, I don't care about the smiley face."

"That's my girl."

My posse and I approach the exit, we are two deep. I am getting excited, I cannot wait. The anticipation is just awesome. RCD eyeballs the two carts in front. I bet he just wants to bust some poor idler. That will make his day. The two subscribers pass with flying colors. It is my opportunity. My grin stretches from ear to ear.

I hand him my receipt. RCD checks my cart, all three items, milk, milk and bagel dogs. I think, "this is rocket science." He looks at my kids and I know what is going through his mind. He could care less about my kids. I am sure he despises my children. They add nothing to his life. They show him no love and he expects none in return. Some corporate clod makes him draw that primitive countenance on the back of the receipt in hopes of my children actually enjoying it, then begging for me to return to good ol' Costco to waste more dinero. I am sure that when any booger-laden child approaches, he cringes, but has to do his job, or else.

He turns over the invoice, I then pounce....

"I don't need a smiley face, the kids don't care."

"Huh?" He sounds like Chick.

"I'll just take that bill of sale back for all three items, the smiley face is not needed."

RCD gets it, he has been snubbed. His face is turning red. "Fine," he proclaims and unwillingly surrenders the receipt. I feel much better now. RCD is pissed, but what is he really going to do?

In all honesty, does that stupid smiley face enhance my children's lives? I think not. Chick and Dude forget about the smirking face as quickly as I forget about the crack whore who just berated me for ignoring her chest pain complaint.

In the long run, RCD will never remember my encounter, but a few minutes of joy was added to my sleepless life. I feel much better now. I hope all is well in everyone's world, keep in touch.

For now, OneDood Done:)

Addendum

I have had enough and I am not going to stand for the insanity any longer. This is an addendum to my last post about needing two lines in the universe. As we all remember, one line is for my competent comrades and the other is for the imbeciles that troll the streets and make my life miserable.

Unfortunately, I had to go to the bank today. As I approach the line, I start to chuckle. I am two persons deep. I knew I had to wait and was going to loiter without a choice.  So I wait and I wait.  The dude being serviced finally finishes.  However, get this, he does not get out of line. My skin was starting to boil. I was actually pulling hair of my head. He starts talking to teller-dude about his vacation to South Carolina. Can you really believe this? I am stupefied (it does not take much).  This schmuck is talking about his vacation while I dally in line.  How is this possible?  Who lets this occur?  All I wanted was to deposit a check, that is it. Now I have to listen to the putz speak of his 34 handicap?  I think teller-dude should be fired and goofus should never be allowed to return to the bank.  

Why should the bank line cause stress?  

Here is a some line etiquette. Quickly make your transaction, then get out.  No speaking.  No conversation. Just go back to your car, taxi, bus or subway. No one cares about you and no one cares about your life. Move on and be done.  That is it. 

I should have punted that dude off line, my bad.

For now, OneDood Done.  I am thoroughly annoyed.

Change the World

I am going to change the world in the forthcoming paragraphs. I am going to revolutionize business and social interactions. I am going to assuage the pain for all my peeps. I urge my sole reader to pass along my new concept, it will change the world, and thus, the universe will be restored.

How many times have you been to the bank or ordered food at a restaurant? How often have you gone through a drive-thru at a pharmacy or paid a toll on a highway? I know the answer. Too many to remember or count. However, I bet you all reminisce about waiting and waiting. I am sure you have been delayed due to the incompetent person ahead of you in line. How many appointments have you missed or arrived at late, due to the ignoramus that was just lucky enough to have appeared seconds before you at the counter? For example, when I go to the bank I dread when the cretin, nincompoop, dimwit, dipstick, goober, numbskull, numbnut, laimbrain, peabrain, twit, dork, twerp, shmuck, galoot, putz or schlemile, cuts me off and steps in front of me on line. He then attempts to perform a transaction as I wait. I just love to twiddle my thumbs as the simpleton argues that his account is really not overdrawn and then asks about the return rate on a Treasury Bill. All of this while my blood pressure rises to the point where my head will pop off my neck.

This post would not be complete without priceless illustrations. Pay close attention. My blood pressure is rising. I think I should take my Lisinopril now.

The other day I made a visit to Starbucks. Now don't get me wrong. I have no clue when it comes to ordering complicated coffee. I still cannot figure out why a Tall is small and a Grande is medium. What does Venti really mean? I cannot decipher an Americano versus a Mocha versus a Misto. It is all Czech to me. All I want is a medium coffee, enough said. That stated, I enter the establishment and find myself fifth in line. Leading the pack is this 50 something year old woman who wants to return a coffee thermos. There are two poor baristas behind the counter, a dude and a chick. The dude is stuck working the register. The chick leaves (Where she went is still a mystery. Maybe she had to pinch a loaf?). Now Barista Dude is all alone, poor guy. Thermos Lady wants to return said thermos, it leaks. BD fills the container with water, places the cap on the top, and shakes it vigorously. Guess what, no leak! TL is not satisfied. She still wants a refund. TL does not have a receipt and the price sticker has been washed off. BD states he cannot refund her money. Now my blood is boiling. All I want is a simple cup of coffee. Barista chick is no where to be found and TL is insistent. I literally wait 10 minutes for the confrontation to be resolved, then bide my time while the other four patrons attempt to order. I finally get to place my elementary order that takes two seconds. Now, why should a Starbucks engagement be so stressful?

Last week I find myself at Panera, again, waiting on line. In front of me is Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb. They are speaking with the teenager behind the counter. TDs cannot figure out the concept, You Pick Two. Here is how it works. It took me 3 seconds to grasp this offering. The customer picks two of three choices to eat: A cup of soup, 1/2 salad or 1/2 sandwich. The choices are finite. If wanted, someone can pick the same cup of soup twice. If he or she wanted Low Fat Vegetarian Black Bean Soup in two separate bowls, that is ok, no one really cares. Well, the first dope asked questions for five minutes about this perplexing innovation. I was able to check my email on my iPhone, pick my nose (many boogers), and take my Diovan while the first meatball tried to crack the You Pick Two code. Her lesser half then orders as moron-one tries to find condiments. These two had a combined double digit IQ. Well, the second dolt did not have enough money for her order and starts yelling "Star" as loud as possible. Now isn't that ironic, one of them was named Star. Likely lack of any Gold Stars while in first grade. While I linger, again it feels as if my head is going to burst. Do I really need this grief?

Drum roll please, my revelation is about to be disseminated.

TWO LINES. THAT'S RIGHT, TWO LINES AT EVERY COUNTER, TOLL, DRIVE-THRU, YOU NAME IT OR THINK OF IT.

If you are a dunce, then you have to enter moron-line with the rest of your fellow ninnies. If you know how to order and have a brain larger than a pea, please step into the line for my astute brethren.

Now that would be cool, no more waiting for some airhead that just happens to turn up a few minutes earlier.

In order for this to work, a couple of conditions must me met. If some zero gets in the incorrect line, the incisive soul being tortured gets to boot them out of line and then kick their ass, no questions asked. Second, the two people behind the counter are not allowed to speak, at all. I don't care if moron-line-counter-help cannot figure out how to return 1/3 of a dead mammal that was eaten by a buzzard. That person cannot speak to the other employee working the competent-line. Lastly, if it takes more than 13 seconds to make an order, that customer must be punted.

I volunteer to be the line-police. Finally, satisfaction.

So, you all may wonder. If I even think about ordering a Venti Banana Chocolate Vivianno, I will enter the blockhead line.

Feel my pain? Let me know. For now, OneDood Done.