Doctors' Offices Blow

This guy was four fucking years old when he sat down in this doctor's office.

In a survey, 100 percent of the participants reported that they despised doctors. (Disclaimer: the only participant was my friend, Lisa’s cat, who had just had a hard, cold, glass tube shoved up her ass and then, jammed into her tender kitty flesh: a large-gauge piece of steel with some stinging contents that burned their way through all of her puttytat vessels. Meow.) But if I had asked more than the one cat, I am sure that close to 100 percent of the repliers would agree that going to the doctor, dentist, emergency room, etc. is as pleasant and welcome as a desert cactus inserted anally. Doctors are assholes who get obvious sexual satisfaction out of torturing their paying customers. Case in point: the waiting room.

If you think there is no hell, you have never sat in a doctor’s office waiting room three hours past your appointment, all the while fantasizing about stomping straight up there to that front desk and telling that receptionist that she can lick your unwiped ass and to tell the doctor that you wouldn’t seek him for medical assistance if you were melting from a nearby nuclear explosion, and he was the only phucking physician left on the planet with a supply of Morphine.

But of course, you cannot really go through with your daydream because then you’d just have to reschedule and wait even longer, and by then, who knows how advanced your sexually transmitted disease/brain tumor/dementia would be? It’s not like you go to the doctor for trivial things just because you saw yet another pharmaceutical commercial during prime time and have manifested the symptoms that require you to ask your doctor about Valtrex ®/Boniva ®/Once-a-day Cialis, ® so you can be ready anytime the moment is right. ® You know? You only go to the trouble of dialing the number, killing a quarter-hour while you slog through the automated system to get to the appointment desk, and waiting for the real person with whom you finally get connected to search for a day and time that is actually fucking convenient for you if you have a bona fide clinical reason to go to the doctor. Right? Right? I am wrong?

And then, after you get to the doctor’s office and circle the overfilled parking lot six times until you finally locate an undersized spot in which to squeeze your car so that you barely have enough room to open your door and dislodge yourself only if you exhale every cubic millimeter of air left in your lungs, you enter the waiting room, that benign space filled with brown places to sit, and crooked bad paintings with unidentified splatters on the glass, and multiple copies of golf magazines, and pamphlets about skin disorders and which nursing facility is right for your loved one. Fucking golf magazines? Are you fucking kidding me? Why not just throw in some fishing magazines, which are even more tedious and less inspiring than fucking fishing itself, so that I can slit my fucking wrists right here and now, and all the other drooling dickwads won’t have to wait as long to get back there to see the goddamned doctor?

For the love of Christ, why can’t they even put out some two-year-old copies of People? Maybe I have forgotten what television shows sucked ass two years ago. Maybe Charlie Sheen wasn’t a pathetically ineffectual and pusillanimous fucktard in 2009. (I stole much of that line from Brad Pitt in Twelve Monkeys, for which he was completely robbed of the Academy Award by Kevin Spacey, who—although he was good and sinister as Keyser Söze in The Usual Suspects—did not deserve that gold statue in light of Pitt’s astounding performance.) Maybe I’m on crack if I think Charlie Sheen has ever been anything other than a pathetically ineffectual and pusillanimous fucktard. But still. Doctors have no business being in business if they cannot run their offices better than all of the ones I’ve ever been to, and I’ve spent approximately seven-eighths of my entire life at the doctor.

Every time I’ve ever brought it up, the physician has stammered some bullshit about his staff being responsible, as if he did not authorize the overbooking of patients so that there are four people scheduled every fifteen fucking minutes, and he is pulling in a thousand dollars a goddamned hour. Those wife-boob-jobs and trips to the Mediterranean ain’t gon pay for theyselves.

And it kills me that if I am ten minutes late for my appointment, the bastards can require me to reschedule for another day and charge me a no-show fee. What if I send the asswipes a bill for the hours I waste sitting in their uncomfortable freaking chairs smelling the elderly and enduring shrieking babies? I don’t know how this whole shit-scented system is ever going to change unless we, the people, stand up for our rights and demand to be treated properly. With respect. And at the actual fucking scheduled time.