[The following ridiculous rant is my entry for Day 3 of my yearly blogging experiment, and quite frankly, is one of the best I’ve ever written. I wrote the first draft in a doctor’s waiting room, in about 15 minutes: the time it took for Patience, my girlfriend, to complete her examination.]
If you’d like to listen to me read it, complete with chuckles, tears, and outright belly laughs, click below…
Our Healthcare system is fucked.
Not because it’s too expensive, or because no one can afford insurance to cover those costs, or because the pharmaceutical companies run the entire show so they can push more drugs on us like some greasy, pusher-man in a dank, wet, alleyway behind the local whorehouse. Nope. That’s not why, even though all of that is true.
It’s because the doctor’s office is fuckin’ boring.
Our healthcare system is definitely a system alright. A system designed to extract the life from you, physically and fiscally. But that’s not what I’m here to blog about today. I’m here to talk about how they could change the doctor’s office itself, to make it less fuckin’ boring. I mean, how many magazines do you really want to read?
You know what they really need?
Yeah, I said it, rum drinks. And I’m not talkin’ about some crap dispensed from a pump in the wall next to the magazine rack. Hell no! Let’s have a Tiki Bar! Yeah, a fuckin’ Tiki bar, complete with fruity, rum-y, tiki drinks!
And while they’re at it, why not partner with psychiatrists or positive psychologists to serve as bartenders?: a cross between Frasier Crane and Issac from the Love Boat–there’s a fuckin’ blast from the past man. [Sorry all you young’uns out there. If you don’t know who I’m talkin’ about, just ask Siri. I’m sure she knows]
I mean, seriously. Wouldn’t that fuckin’ rock!? You could get a good, healthy Pina Colada, complete with the Rupert Holmes’ song playing in the background, or a Category 6-Hurricane Steve (one of my recipes)–while ranting and raving about your wife, husband, girlfriend, kids, job, or the throbbing hemorrhoid that brought you to the doctor’s office to begin with–and get all your psychoses straightened out at the same time!
We need a new name for this Frasier-Issac combination. How about a psyche-tender! Yeah, I know, the term doesn’t flow, but I’m goin’ with it.
The psyche-tender could light your cigar—cause you’re probably gonna get cancer anyway, and you’re at the doctor’s office where they can catch it early—and pump you full of rum, while helping you overcome all the anxiety that the cashier is gonna give you when the experience is all over! Hell yeah!
And, if you have a tiki bar, you need a fuckin’ beach, so let’s put a shit-ton of sand all over the floor in front of it, hell, even better yet, let’s put the damned thing outside! I mean the whole fuckin’ office! Let’s just dispense with the boring, office-park, brick facade to begin with! I mean that’s where all the boredom originates, right?
There’s no reason that we have to be inside, especially in summer. And if you live in freeze-your-ass-off Yankeeland, like me, we could put it in a big ass greenhouse, complete with tropical plants and flowers, maybe even have some colorful tropical birds, some parrots that cuss you out and ask for fuckin’ crackers, and some monkeys to swing from the palm trees above, some headhunter drums beating in the distance–which is appropriate, because that’s what it feels like when you get to the desk afterwards and have to pay the fuckin’ bill. And if you have headhunters, you need one more thing.
A Flaming Mountain
Right in the middle, why not build one of those fake volcanoes like you see on mini-golf courses at Myrtle Beach, and while we’re at it, why not the mini-golf course, too!? How awesome would that be?
Instead of sitting in one of those uncomfortable chairs in a sterile waiting room, staring at brochures about the joys of STDs and brain aneurysms, you could putt your way around the course, alongside cascading streams of blue-food-colored water, gorilla statues, and squawking spider monkeys, while waiting your turn with the pysche-tender, or for the doctor, while pounding down a couple gallons of rum drinks in one of those bad-ass tiki glasses.
Hell, why not run the whole medical practice ON the course!? Instead of making an appointment with your doctor, you set a Tee Time! Hell yeah! And you can wait your turn at the psyche-tender shack, pounding down rum drinks!
Once your tee time comes up, the doctor could putt around with you—a win win for both of you, since that’s where doctors really want to be anyway, who doesn’t’—while he or she dispenses ancient medical wisdom and asks you all those questions about whether or not you’ve been sexually abused, feel unsafe, if you’ve ever had sex with a monkey, or looked lustily at holes in the wall, or whether you would rather be smacking your dick with a hammer–and who wouldn’t rather hammer their genitals than answer all those fuckin’ questions?
Hell, you know who else loves to play golf?
Insurance salesmen, and lawyers! They could join you and the doc to form a foursome, just in case the doctor gives you advice that could kill you. If so, you’d have the ambulance chaser right there to sue the fuck out of him, and the insurance salesman/woman to tell you that your condition—mortality—was preexisting or at least predetermined, so you’re pretty much fucked, unless the lawyer can squeeze the settlement out of the doc and his insurance man. Where the hell did he come from? Fuck! It sounds like we’ve got a fivesome, complete with two insurance salesmen—and that can’t ever be good. I need another Pina Colada. Which way was it to the psyche-tender tiki bar?
Of course, there’s only one problem with being examined on the mini-golf course: what if you have to drop your fuckin’ pants and turn your head to cough while the doctor fondles your balls? I don’t know about you, but I don’t think I want to do that on the 18th hole, or even at the 19th, with the psyche-tender in attendance. Somethings just can’t be solved with a yo, ho, ho, and a bottle of rum. I ain’t that kind of pirate.
Here’s an idea, instead…
Let’s put up a little tiki-beach-shack next to the course, you know, like the ones on Gilligan’s Isle, complete with palm fronds on top and maybe a hammock in case you have to lie down, or for the ladies when the doctor has to to the dildo-ultrasound thingy, or for any of those other things that we guys don’t really want to think about when it comes to feminine hygiene health.
I don’t actually know anything about the dildo-ultrasound thingy, other than what Patience–that’s Patience (my girlfriend not my virtue) not patients, the plural version of the people getting screwed by the healthcare system–told me about it, what with the scraping and probing and stuff. Sounded pretty medieval to me.
At least in the hut you could have some privacy with the doc while you’re coughing and he’s groping, or probing. I’m still not sure what the hell that whole ritual is about. I think I’ll ask Siri when I’m done typing this crap. Maybe she knows. Personally, I think they’re just trying to weaken our minds, you know, break us down psychologically, kind of like the Gestapo used to do with their un-Nazi prisoners, so that we’re more vulnerable and pliable when we get to the cashier an hour or so later.
“Vee have vaaays of making you tahlk…”
While you’re in the hut, maybe they have topless waitresses from the tiki bar to bring you a top-off for your Pina Coladas, with a smile of course. And they could be both women AND men; it’s not just women that can be topless, in case you were thinking I was being sexist or something. And speaking of flesh…
After psyche evaluation, ball-squeezing, coughing, pina coladas, and a round of mini-golf with insurance salesmen, doctors, and lawyers, I don’t know about you, but I’m starving! So, let’s bring in a couple of BBQ experts and a real BBQ pit, right next to the psyche-tender’s Tiki Bar. You could get some real NC BBQ pulled pork, or some BBQ Ribs! Or some kick-ass Jamaican Jerk chicken wings! (Maybe I could arrange a trade off? I’ll supply my NC, Pirate’s Cove sauce, and Jamaican Jerk sauce to top it off! Fuck yeah! Now we’re talkin’!
Just think of it. You can rum, I mean, ruin your liver, cure your depression, sue for malpractice, play some golf, and jack up your cholesterol, all in the same fuckin’ place, while listening to reggae and Rupert fuckin’ Holmes!
I’m a fuckin’ genius. I’ve just solved boredom at the doctor’s office, and fixed our entire healthcare system, in one fell swoop! Or at least I’ve anesthetized the entire process, which is basically the solution that our system has designed for us anyway.
I don’t know about you, but I’m lovin’ this whole idea. Hell, if my doctor had such an office, I might actually GO to the doctor. Hell, why would I ever LEAVE?!