The Bad Doctor, The Bad Dance, Et Cetera

Many small things have happened in the Rat's Nest since my last proper update, but nothing of particular importance. I had a thousand little notes lying about, which I had meant to incorporate into entries--had: they all got swept out during my last big cleaning spree.

There was one about my new doctor.

His name is Dr. S-----, and he's just beastly. I can't stand him at all. I only got him, in the first place, because I lost my old doctor's business card, and promptly forgot his name. I searched the Yellow Pages from A to Zed, hoping to retrieve the poor man, but all I got was Dr. S-----. I'm stuck with him, too, because he's the only one I could find who'd do housecalls. (Housecall, as defined by Dr. S-----: showing up first thing in the morning, without an appointment, and taking the patient to task for having been asleep.)

I was expecting the greengrocer that day, see. I buzzed the doctor in without realizing it was him. No doubt I looked quite bamboozled to find him standing there. Remember, though, he hadn't an appointment. What earthly reason would I have not to appear surprised?

"Oh?" I said, wondering why the grocery man was holding a doctor's bag.

"It's Dr. S-----."

"Oh! Pardon me. Come in."

"You were expecting somebody else?"

"Yes, the man from the greengrocer's. He comes on a Friday, ordinarily, and--"

The doctor butted in rudely. "Have you been drinking? Using drugs?"

(I ought to point out, at this juncture, that it wasn't the doctor's first visit. He'd been round just the week before, taking down as much of my medical history as I could remember offhand. Said history included the fact that I never drink, smoke, or use any drugs that don't come from the pharmacy counter at the Super Valu.)

"Of course I haven't."

"Are you sure?"

"Are you serious?"

"Yes."

"No, no drugs. I look like I can afford drugs?"

"You look totally whacked."

I ask you. Who even talks like that? "Totally whacked?" It sounds like something my little sister might've said...when she was twelve. I was tempted to ask if he got his MD from Sears, or if he'd been hitting the bong himself, but I kept my temper in check.

"I was sleeping," I said, very mildly.

"Haa--your pupils don't dilate."

"The sun is in my face."

If I didn't need a referral for a pulmonary specialist from this joker, he'd be out on his ear. He insults me every time he sees me, and addresses me as though I were four years old. Here--some important medical inquiries from Dr. S-----:

"So, you twenty-something girls and your fad diets, eh? Which one are you on?"

"How's your sex life? Any chance you've got HIV?"

"Your skin is like the underside of a fish."

"What's with this grip? It's like being grabbed by an oven mitt."

(Answers, in order: the "whatever I can afford" diet; no sex life to speak of; no chance of HIV; that's not a question; I don't know.)

And folks wonder why I hate going to the doctor!

In spite of Dr. S----- and his Very Scientific Inquiries, I found myself under the weather for a while, and watching extra TV to pass the time. I want to tell you about some of the commercials I saw, and the nauseating anger they stirred in me.

Exhibit A: Eine Kleine Scheissmusik
Culprit: Some company that makes diapers
Crime: Sometimes, I'm glad my art is spectacularly unpopular, and unlikely to survive me by too many years. I'll go to my grave with a smile on my face, knowing my drawings will never be used to hawk haemorrhoid cream or incontinence pants. No-one will ever paste a smiling baby into my depiction of The Forest Bride, or use The Sap Maiden as the backdrop for a condom packet. Mozart, on the other hand--well, have you ever read A Clockwork Orange? You know the bit where Alex is being horribly tortured, and he suddenly becomes aware he's hearing Beethoven's ninth in the background? "Not Ludwig Van!" Well, that was my reaction exactly when I was first subjected to Eine Kleine Scheissmusik. Not Wolfgang A. No. No.

No. No-no. No-no-no-no-no-NO!
You can't, you won't change my diaper now.
'Cause I've got lots of things to do,
Like chase this big balloon--

I can't go on! It--it was revolting. It was horrendous. It was Mozart's Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, reinvented as a song about human excrement. "Look at me! I'm running around with a bag full of shit taped to my arse, but I'd rather you just left it there. Chasing this balloon is much more important than, you know, not being waist-deep in my own feces."

How could they? It wasn't my favourite piece of music, but now I'll never hear it again without also hearing that loathsome jingle. Can't they write their own accursed shitmusic? They've got to sodomize dead composers to sell a few diapers? In my day, a diaper was just an old fold of terry-cloth with some pins in it. These plastic diaper salesmen should be on their knees thanking TV for lazy people who don't like to wash things. They ought to be donating to the arts out of those deep pockets of theirs, not desecrating them.

Exhibit B: In the Kingdom of the Rushed, the Bratty Child is King
Culprit: Pizza Hut, McDonald's, KFC, various fast-food chains
Crime: Variants of the same scene play out. A mother tries to pack her kid into the car, but he won't come till he's promised McDonald's. Children throw cereal all over the floor trying to get at the "good stuff" buried near the bottom of the box, but stop making a mess when offered pizza without crusts. The same children refuse to come in for dinner, until their mother orders in. A brother and sister argue raucously, until their mother arrives home with a bucket containing several types of bacteria--er, fried chicken. That same motif, over and over again--children being rewarded for bad behaviour. It makes me sick. I have a message for the type of parents who identify with this nonsense: if you've got to bribe your horrible offspring before they'll treat you or your home with anything approaching respect, you are a bad parent. Thanks for listening.

Exhibit C: Jared Fogle
Culprit: Subway
Crime: None in particular--it's just that his voice sounds exactly like that of a fellow I once went out with. I hate that type of prissy voice. I always wanted to kick that guy, and now I want to kick Jared Fogle.

"Socar is doing some kind of weird spastic dance that involves a lot of batting at the air with her forearms. It's not even a dance. I don't know what it is. Maybe a bug's trying to bite her."

(It was a waltz. I just didn't have a partner, is all.)