Early yesterday morning I stopped by Doctor Doctor’s office so that he could check on how I’m faring with the Mother of All Summer Colds and the Eye Snot. Here’s how it went:

DD: So, how are you feeling?

Jimbo: Considerably better. Still a little fatigued, but I figure that will pass in a few more days.

DD: Good. How are your eyes feeling?

Jimbo: Much better. I’ve been doing the drops, and I have a few more days to go with them.

DD: (Looks into my eyes) Good. Are you having any trouble putting the drops in?

Jimbo: Funny you should ask. As a matter of fact, I’m not too good at that.

DD: Well, there is something new out that I could prescribe to you that should make it much easier for you.

Jimbo: Really? What is that?

DD: It contains the same active ingredient to treat your eyes, but it comes in suppository form.

Jimbo:

DD: (shit-eating grin)

Jimbo: You’re shitting me.

DD: BWAHAHAHAHA!!

Turns out that Doctor Doctor is also Blog Reader Blog Reader.

I know you are all losing significant amounts of sleep fretting about the current status of the epic battle between Jimbo and what apparently is the Mother-of-All-Colds. Here is the absolute latest skinny.

After endless badgering from many quarters, I finally paid a visit to “Doctor Doctor,” the de facto Team Doctor to the Usual Suspects.

He’s familiar with my routines. As such, being the gentleman and consummate professional that he is, he is patient with my customary flights of self-diagnosis and smartassed comments such as, “If you have a cure for the common cold, I wanna be your business partner. We’ll buy and sell Donald Trump.” He just smiles and goes about his business of checking my blood pressure, checking my lymph nodes, looking in my eyes, ears and down my throat, and listening to my lungs.

When he got to the lungs, he listened and then asked, “You didn’t notice the noises your lungs are making?” Truth is, I had noticed the strange hisses, crackles, pops and “wheeeeeeee” sounds they were making, and I can only assume that when heard through a stethoscope, my lungs must have sounded like a fuel dragster at the starting line.

Without asking my “learned” opinion, he directed that I immediately take a breathing test, presumably to make sure that I wasn’t in the process of suffocating. (The song ”Am I Blue?” comes to mind.) The good news is that, even though my lungs sound like a traffic accident, they are working fine, so there was no need to call the EMS guys.

He prescribed an antibiotic, heading off my anticipated “Antibiotics Don’t Work on Viruses” argument by explaining that the antibiotic will help, because these things are often accompanied by or can result in multiple infections. It was an extremely professional way of suggesting that I ought to consider putting a sock in my yap.

“Doctor Doctor” – He’s simply the best.

I got to thinking about how a routine call to the doctor’s office might go in the future. Here ‘tis:

RINNNNNNNNNG……

Operator: ObamaCare …. Please hold.

(15 minutes later)

Operator: ObamaCare, may I help you?

Patient: My God, I dialed the number for my doctor’s office, and I spent ten minutes responding to telephone prompts to finally speak with a real person, then I was put on hold….

Operator: We’re very busy, sir. How can I help you?

Patient: My name is John Stevens. I’m a patient of Dr. Jones, and I’d like to speak with Dr. Jones when he has a moment.

Operator: That won’t be possible, sir.

Patient: OK, I would like to stop by today if possible. I have a very painful earache. The pain is horrible, and it’s even making me nauseous.

Operator: That won’t be possible, sir.

Patient: OK, I’ll take a bunch of aspirin, but can I see the doctor tomorrow?

Operator: That won’t be possible, sir.

Patient: Who’s his covering doctor? I think I really need to see a doctor. This is getting worse every day.

Operator: Sir, we don’t have doctors here. This is an ObamaCare Call Center. All phone calls to physicians’ offices are automatically forwarded here now.

Patient: Jesus, I don’t understand all that; I really need to make an appointment to see a doctor . Can you make an appointment for me?

Operator: What is your Social Security Number, sir?

Patient: Is all this necessary? I’ve been Dr. Jones’ patient for fifteen years.

Operator: We can’t even discuss an appointment until I get your Social Security Number.

Patient: OK, It’s 111-22-1234. Now, will you please make the appointment. I’m in terrible pain here.

Operator: .(following lengthy pause) It’s not that simple, sir. I’ve checked, and you are not in our system. We will require detailed information about your medical history, family’s medical history, your occupation and some information about your lifestyle.

Patient: Didn’t you hear me? I said I’ve been a patient of Dr. Jones for fifteen years. He has my records – fifteen years’ worth!

Operator: It seems that Dr. Jones’ files were not in a form that could be readily imported into our databases. It’s a common problem and we have people working on getting that information into our system.

Patient: Christ! What do I do in the meantime?

Operator: You have to register in the system.

Patient: OK. Can I do that online? Can you register me now? My ear is throbbing!

Operator: No, sir. I cannot do that. You see, this is a Call Center. You will have to go to one of the area ObamaCare Registration Centers to register. I suggest you call first, so they can tell you what kind of documentation you will need to bring with you in order to be permitted to register. You may need an appointment.

Patient: You’re kidding me, right?

Operator: I’m very busy. Do you have any questions about the instructions I have just given you?

Patient: Yes I do. If I can manage to drive to gather up all the documents this Registration Center needs, and I can manage to drive there without passing out, and I don’t have to make an appointment to register, will they be able to make an appointment for me to see a doctor tomorrow?

Operator: No, sir. As I told you, that is a Registration Center. We make the appointments once you are registered. The Registration Center advises us when your registration is complete.

Patient: How long does that take?

Operator: They’re pretty backed up over there, so I’m guessing it will take about a week.

Patient: A WEEK?!? I can’t want a damned week! I’m in horrible pain. I’ll just go to the emergency room.

Operator: That won’t be possible, sir.

Patient: Why?

Operator: Under the new regulations, treatment of earaches by emergency room personnel is not permitted.

Patient: This is insane!

Operator: Sir, you have to take into account that medical services are now free.

Patient: Free-Schmee! I’ll pay a doctor to examine my ear. I’m worried that this may turn into something really serious.

Operator: That won’t be possible, sir. Physicians are prohibited from accepting payments outside the system.

Patient: Let me guess … the regulations?

Operator: That’s correct, sir.

Patient: Let me ask you as one human being to another. What the heck am I supposed to do? I’m actually worried about passing out while I’m on the phone.

Operator: Well, as a kid, when I would get an earache, my grandmother would some spices and who knows what else to some warm olive oil and put it in my ear. Worked every time.

Patient: OWWWWWW!!! This is positively killing me! I wish I could see your grandmother right about now!

Operator: I believe that is possible. She lives only three blocks from you. I can call her to tell her you’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Will that be OK?

Patient: Oh, that would be wonderful. Thank you so much.

Operator: There’s one more thing.

Patient: What’s that?

Operator: She gets $250 per treatment, payable in cash.

UPDATE: Doug Ross was thinking along the same lines. Good stuff.

My buddy Brian, the Air Force Vet sent me these a while ago. Neither he nor I know whether any of these are true, but they managed to make me laugh on this coldish, rainy, dreary Saturday afternoon. I am a bit embarassed to admit that I laughed out loud at Number 3.

1. A man comes into the ER and yells, “My wife’s going to have her baby in the cab!” I grabbed my stuff, rushed out to the cab, lifted the lady’s dress and began to take off her underwear. Suddenly I noticed that there were several cabs -and I was in the wrong one.
Submitted by Dr. Mark MacDonald, San Antonio, TX.

2. At the beginning of my shift I placed a stethoscope on an elderly and slightly deaf female patient’s anterior chest wall. “Big breaths,” I instructed. “Yes, they used to be,” replied the patient.

Submitted by Dr. Richard Byrnes, Seattle, WA

3. One day I had to be the bearer of bad news when I told a wife that her husband had died of a massive myocardial infarct. Not more than five minutes later, I heard her reporting to the rest of the family that he had died of a “massive internal fart.”

Submitted by Dr. Susan Steinberg, Manitoba, Canada

4. During a patient’s two week follow-up appointment with his Cardiologist, he informed me, his doctor, that he was having trouble with one of his medications. “Which one?” I asked. “The patch. The nurse told me to put on a new one every six hours and now I’m running out of places to put it!” I had him quickly undress and discovered what I hoped I wouldn’t see. Yes, the man had over fifty patches on his body! Now, the instructions include removal of the old patch before applying a new one.

Submitted by Dr. Rebecca St. Clair, Norfolk, VA

5. While acquainting myself with a new elderly patient, I asked, “How long have you been bedridden?” After a look of complete confusion she answered…”Why, not for about twenty years – when my husband was alive.”

Submitted by Dr. Steven Swanson, Corvallis, OR

6. I was caring for a woman and asked, “So how’s your breakfast this morning?” “It’s very good, except for the Kentucky Jelly. I can’t seem to get used to the taste” the patient replied. I then asked to see the jelly and the woman produced a foil packet labeled “KY Jelly.”

Submitted by Dr. Leonard Kransdorf, Detroit, MI

7. A nurse was on duty in the Emergency Room, when a young woman with purple hair styled into a punk rocker Mohawk, sporting a variety of tattoos and wearing strange clothing, entered. It was quickly determined that the patient had acute appendicitis, so she was scheduled for immediate surgery. When she was completely disrobed on the operating table, the staff noticed that her pubic hair had been dyed green, and above it there was a tattoo that read, “Keep off the grass.” Once the surgery was completed, the surgeon wrote a short note on the patient’s dressing, which said, “Sorry, had to mow the lawn.”

Submitted by RN no name

AND FINALLY!!!…………….

8. As a new, young MD doing his residency in OB, I was quite embarrassed when performing female pelvic exams. To cover my embarrassment I had unconsciously formed a habit of whistling softly. The middle-aged lady upon whom I was performing this exam suddenly burst out laughing and further embarrassing me. I looked up from my work and sheepishly said, “I’m sorry. Was I tickling you?” She replied, “No doctor, but the song you were whistling was, “I wish I was an Oscar Meyer Wiener”.

Dr. Wouldn’t submit his name

Can you tell me what’s ailing me?*You may wonder how a collection of aging Vietnam Era types who hang together, travel together, and party hard and long, which invariably includes drinking like sailors on liberty sipping an occasional libation and eating like a pack of hungry wolves enjoying fine victuals, manages to continue to remain ambulatory and relatively healthy. If you hadn’t thought about that, trust me: It’s quite remarkable.

The reason why, in defiance of the aging process, we’re all still raising hell is because, like all first-class teams, we have a Team Doctor, and he would be “Doctor Doctor.”**

Doctor Doctor didn’t sign on to be the Team Doctor, but it just sort of worked out that way. Each of us makes our regularly scheduled visits to see Doctor Doctor for checkups, and during any given week, at least one of the Usual Suspects needs an appointment for an ache … here or a pain … there. It would be an understatement to say that he knows us all very well. He knows all our HDLs, LDLs, liver enzymes, and assorted other diagnostic markers lurking in our blood. He has a keen diagnostic sense to begin with, but knowing all of us provides him with an edge in getting to the root cause of any given malady. “Martinis this weekend was it?”

On special occasions, Doctor Doctor (sometimes with his lovely wife, Mrs. Doctor Doctor) has even been known to show up at one of our drunken brawls social gatherings. He’ll even have a beer or two (I’ve never seen him drink more than two) while, I suspect, he silently surveys the gang for clues as to what symptoms he’ll be hearing in the weeks to come. “You think your arm might be sore from pitching a dozen games of horseshoes, or from lugging all that ice? Maybe the upset stomach has something to do with the tequila and kielbasa?”

He practices “non-preachy” medicine, resting assured that we all know what’s good for us and what is not. Doctor Doctor always listens and always carefully considers the treatment options. He has never failed to spot a potentially serious problem, and, unless it is a matter that requires immediate attention, he always chooses the conservative approach. “Well, it could be ‘X,’ or you might need ‘Y,’ but let’s try ‘Z’ first, and check back with me in a week.” I like that approach, and I like him. He’s a good doctor and a good guy.

What would you guess is the question that is most often posed to Doctor Doctor by his Usual Suspect patients? The question is regularly asked following his handing one of the Usual Suspects a new prescription, and the question is ……..

”Can I drink with this?”

* Reference for younger readers.

** I dare not name Doctor Doctor, lest his professional standing suffer as a result of being identified as the de facto Team Doc for the collection of aging reprobates that is The Usual Suspects.

What to do when you are too tired, too frazzled, and too cranky to create something interesting or humorous? Simple. You fall back on a MEME.

I got this one from Mostly Cajun, and he got it from El Capitan.

Try to contain yourselves as I reveal [s] extremely interesting [/s] things about my badself.

Do you remember your first favorite song? If so, what was it?
“My Heart Cries for You” I was a mere squirt, but my mother told me that I could sing all the words — with soul.

What do you refuse to eat?
All seafood except for shrimp, which I learned to eat so as to be able to not screw up the dinner plans of those who wish to eat at a seafood joint. I also won’t eat anything that I saw when it was alive. I prefer meat from the supermarket on a Styrofoam tray wrapped in clear plastic wrap and bearing a price tag. Finally, bugs and boogers got no shot.

Have you ever injected any kind of drug before?
Zillions of times to lab animals, but never to myself. For my part, I was particularly fond of the pneumatic guns the Army used to “squirt” stuff into your arm. Yeef!

Do amusement park rides make you sick?
Ones that do nothing but spin might. Roller coasters and similar rides, no. By contrast, Barney Frank always makes me sick.

Who is your favorite Star Wars character?
Obi what’shisname.

What kind of cheese do you put on your sandwiches?
American or Swiss usually. Not a fan of seriously stinky cheese.

What was the first thing you ever learned how to cook?
Fried eggs.

Did you ever collect beanie babies?
Nope. I once considered collecting humorous cummerbunds, but I soon learned that they were too rare to be worth the investment in time.

When was the last time you got a haircut?
Almost five weeks ago. I’m due this week. I take hair care quite seriously.

Have you ever been to a bachelor/bachelorette party?
Oh yeah. Someday I’ll write about mine. Teaser: It involved nudity and a bowling ball. Really.

Where are you most ticklish on your body?
Not really ticklish. I was when I was a kid. Nowadays I’m too cranky.

Have you ever bailed anyone out of jail?
No, but remind me to tell you the story about the pro bono client I visited in jail. It’s a moderately funny story, but I’m too tired at the moment to tell it.

What’s the last board game you played?
Scrabble. I’m not real good at it. I’m too busy trying to think of fifty cent words, while those who are good at it always get the triple word scores with douche bag words, making me and “laconic” look pretty stupid.

Do you still own any VHS tapes?
A shitload. Nothing to play them on. Progress sometimes sucks. I’m hopeful that Obama will do something for us VHS tape owners.

Do you shop at JC Penney’s ever?
Nope, but I once knew a guy who got some pretty cool shoes there. Maybe it was a shirt. Like I said, I’m pretty tired.

If there was a real Jurassic Park, would you visit it?
No farookin’ way. Dinosaurs are, to me, like alligators raised to the tenth power. Good grief.

Do you ever read the newspaper?
Not the dead tree versions. By the way, I can’t believe people actually pay to read the New York Times.

Do you eat your mac & cheese with a fork or a spoon?
Fork. Fork me? Fork YOU!

Is there any medicine/pill you take every day?
Two. They seem to be working. Doctor Doctor is pleased, and so am I.

How many 20 dollar bills do you have on you right now?
None at the moment, but when I emptied my pockets on the table a few hours ago, I believe there were four. I had two more, but the liquor store owns them now.

Would you do meth if it was legalized?
No thanks. That is some seriously bad shit.

Do you think Obama will be assassinated?
I don’t like the guy, but I certainly would not want that to happen. I would be happy if he would just wise up.

Have you ever made out with someone and then never saw them again?
I’m sure I did in my yoot.

Do you drink egg nog?
Definitely (with a tad of dark rum or brandy). I also like egg nog ice cream.

What are you wearing?
Sweat pants and a raggedy, very comfortable blue tee shirt. I figure some day it will be in style.

To treat my case of eye snot, Doctor Doctor prescribed eye drops, which have to be put in my eyes at regular intervals several times per day. Eye drops? No big deal, right?

Maybe it’s no big deal for most peeps, but I am a big baby when it comes to putting eye drops into my eyes. In fact, I get freaky when anyone puts anything near my eyes, which is why I cannot even comfortably think about wearing contact lenses, much less actually wear them.

”Yo, Jimbo. Here are two foreign objects. Just plaster one of them on each of your eyeballs and rock on.”

No farookin’ way!

I also get the heebie jeebies every time I see women applying eye liner by sticking a pencil point right next to her eyeballs. A farookin’ pencil in the eye!!! Yeef!

Anyway, back to eye drops.

Being the big baby that I am, I typically ask Mrs. Parkway to put the drops in my eyes (“You have to OPEN your damned eye, Jim!”), but given the frequency of application, I am largely left to my own devices this time around.

At first, I tried putting the drops in while standing in front of the bathroom mirror and pulling the skin around the bottom of my eyes down (the ophthalmologist does it this way). No dice. I ended up with eye drops everywhere but in my eyes, including on my shirt. It immediately became very clear that tipping one’s head back was a requisite for any chance I might have in getting that stuff into my eyes. I tried the stand-up, head-tilted-back technique, which resulted in some improvement, meaning that it might take four drops to get one drop in my eye.

Turns out that the only way I can get the damned drops into my eyes with something resembling accuracy is to sit in my office chair (at work or at home) and tilt the seat all the way back (almost as if I were in a modern dentist’s chair). Then, bracing my hand against my cheekbone, I put the cursed tip of the little bottle as close to my open eye as I can stand it, reminding myself not to blink. I’m certain that if I touch my eye with the damned thing I’ll pass right the hell out, which is another good reason to be in a chair.

That technique, which is doubtless comical to watch, has me batting above 500, but I still manage to blink when I shouldn’t, leading to drops landing on my eyelid and down my face.

I still have three more days of this to go. Fortunately, Doctor Doctor prescribed enough of the stuff to permit me to dispense mass quantities of the medicine seemingly everywhere except to my eye balls.

Yep. Definitely a big baby when it comes to eye drops.

Truth is, it’s not just eyes and eye drops about which I am a big baby, but we won’t be discussing the time many, many years ago when a doctor prescribed suppositories.

OK, so I managed to drag my sick ass through the rest of the work week. Gallons of water, lots of vitamin C, Robitussin and Doctor Doctor’s prescription. The three-minute walk from the office to the Big, Fat, Black Capitalist Car seemed to take a half hour in the heat and humidity.

So, what would be a curative way to spend the evening? Bed? Tea with a little honey and lemon and a slug of dark rum?

No!

Why rest and recuperate when you can schlep off to the THEE-ah-tah to watch the performance of a musical involving a large blood-sucking, man-eating plant?

Made a new appointment with the dentist, as I was too sick to keep the most recent one. I went to visit Doctor Doctor after work about the crud that accompanied me from Hawaii (I’ve been properly schooled not to wait). He poked, prodded, listened, shined lights on various orafices and confirmed that I will likely live. He provided me with some meds (meds you can drink with, of course) and advised me to “rest whenever you can.” I’m sure that advice contemplated my not sitting in front of this computer at ridiculous hours writing goofy shit.

Besides, today was Mrs. Parkway’s birthday, so I spent my “blogging time” having a cocktail with Mrs. Parkway on the deck.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll have the will and energy to get back to the goofy shit.

Hasta la pizza.

I like to think that you may have noticed that I have not been long on content over the past handful of days. No need to be polite. Surely you must have noticed that I have been experiencing a bit of a dry spell. Anyone who has plunged into the blogosphere, replete with its self-imposed deadlines, understands the abdominal gnawing one feels when the well is dry and it seems as if it will always be so.

In my case, I blame the lack of the morning ground pound, which is when any even arguably original ideas I have usually are born. Unfortunately for me and my muse (and youse), I had a bit of a non-serious, but annoying problem that finally sent me off to see Doctor Doctor. Now, armed with a container of meds and a lecture from Doctor Doctor (“And when had you planned on coming in to see me about this?”), I should be back on the streets and back to blogthinking in a few days.

In the meantime, rest assured that I have been watching the impending meltdown of the Democrat Party. There is nothing quite as sweet as watching Democrats do to each other the kinds of things they always claim, with “righteous” indignation, that Republicans do to them.

I do hope to see youse guys at the Jersey Blogmeet. I do believe that this will be the first time that Denny, the Grouchy Old Cripple, and I the Elderly Brothers have brought the Soft Food Tour to a venue north of the Mason-Dixon line.