Wife’s in the hospital and the medical profession is weird. Seriously you folks are weird.


The good news upfront.

The wife’s in the hospital for at least one night and I have total access to porn or I can blog.

I chose to blog so you know what kind of dork I am.  That or I’m typing this one handed.

It’s up to you which one you believe.

Okay, stupid jokes aside.  She’s fine, the doctor realized I needed a night to blog and kept her.

Okay this time I mean it.  No more jokes.  At least until we clarify that yes the wife is fine and that the doctor wanted to keep her at least over night to pump her full of some antibiotics cause he has a medical degree and who are we to question that?

She’s totally fine, they caught ‘it’ early and anyway she’ll be home soon.   Seriously.  She’s good.   I’m pretty sure spilling out too much of her medical condition, here, violates something.

It might have been in our wedding vows but I wasn’t really paying attention.  Something, something, something, don’t blog about this woman’s medical stuff, something, something.  It was in there I’m sure.

She’s fine and that’s not what this update is about, only it kind of is, but in a roundabout way.

This is more about you medical professionals.

From the person that checks you into the hospital to the nurse that takes care of you to the doctor that treats you … yeah you folks …

What the fuck is wrong with all of you?

Don’t get me wrong you’re all saints, salt of the earth really and I’ll never get how any of you do it.

Not in a million years.

I avoid the doctor like the plague, which is odd cause the plague could be the reason I finally see one.    The plague or gout, I hope its gout cause gout sounds medieval.

Me to my imaginary medieval wife: “Well I WOULD go out and earn a living as the town drunkard tonight honey but fucking gout you know?”

Her:  “You just like saying gout.”

And I do like saying gout, so I’ll say it now.  You know to get it out.

Gout.

But back to you medical professionals, all of you are saints namely cause, I couldn’t do it for a second.

Oh I could do it for a second.   Hell I could do it for more than that but eventually I’d snap.

There would be a patient, in the waiting room looking down and holding one of those plastic bag things you puke into in the waiting room, looking pathetic.

Doctor me: Just fucking puke already, Jesus.  Use your finger asshat, are you sick or retarded?

My bedside manner would be level ‘Hitler’.

You’re all so fucking nice.  Surrounded by sick and sick and some sick, you’re nice.

I’d be depressed as shit all day long.

“And why are you seeing the doctor today?  You’re vomiting blood?  Jesus that fucked up, you’ve got some weird shit that makes that happen and you’re prolly going to die or something, god this job sucks.  Fuck everyone that comes in here is sick.  Hang on the boss wants to see me, again.”

I know, I know, my mom was a nurse.  Bedside manner, don’t call the patient a fucking retard and never, never anoint the doctor with ‘holy water’.

Doctor leaving my wife’s room:  what are you doing?

Me: Blessing the ground you walked on with holy water.

Doctor:  That’s a bottle of ‘smart water’

Me:  I know I blessed it in the car last time I had a cigarette, totally snuck a beer while I did it too.

Doctor:  You’re some sort of “religious official?”

Me: Totally, Doctor of Divinity did it in the 90’s.  The internet was a bit wild-west, loosey-goosey back then.   Two hundred bucks and bam you’re a doctor of divinity, I’ll send you the link.  Dunno if it’s still active or not though.

Doctor:  Please stop following me.

Me: I get that a lot, go in peace my son.

For likely the same reason I’d make a great dictator, I’d make a shitty medical worker.  You folks don’t seem to realize (of course you realize but for the sake of the following very-weak joke, you don’t realize) that you hold all the power.   Are you cold?  Fuck off and ask NICELY for a blanket.  Are you comfortable? Fuck you I’ll adjust whatever I want on my whim, you sick person need me more than I need you.

Seriously the surgeon, cause it looked for a moment like my wife was going into surgery, that did the consult with my wife found me wandering later in the hallways looking for a bathroom.  It was a familiar face and I asked him if he knew where a bathroom was figuring he just ‘knew’.    Shortly after I asked I realized he was in a hurry to the next appointment but he took the time to help me find one.

DUDE you save lives, I have to pee.  Hell if it gets bad enough I’ll pee my pants, I’ll pee in one of the hospital’s plants, hell I can just hold it.  Go, sir, go and tell me it’s ‘that way’ and go save lives.

I’d punch each of us in the face.  That in fact WOULD be the bill for each question.

I’ll answer your retard question sir or ma’am but the answerer requires that I punch you, in the face, yeah government regulations.  Sorry.

Mesh panties and pink saline bullets is a party medical people … we’re on to you.

I’ll end with the fact that she and I laughed snot out of noses about some of the names you all give shit.   Your fuckers aren’t funny, or maybe you are, cause the names of shit that ‘must be checked every shift’ are fucking hysterical.

Seriously mesh panties and pink saline bullets (see photo)?

What the fuck kind of weird sex parties are you fuckers having in these rooms after hours and can we get invites?

Please?

I mean once she’s better of course.

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