Time for another episode of...
CRABBYDAD'S HEINOUS EXPERIENCES WITH INSANE, MEDIEVAL DOCTOR-IMPERSONATORS!
Today's story finds our hero at some random surgeon's office -- for what he was told was supposed to be a "consultation." We were supposed to be consulting about the "sucking a fat sample from my stomach" test prescribed by Count Von Bloodula.
The surgeon looked like a paler Jim Gaffigan with a Moe Howard haircut and Coke-bottle glasses. I know. He had the kind of glasses that, if you look at him through said glasses, his head looks about 10 inches thinner than if you look at his real head. So he's basically blind, which is really what you want from a surgeon. He comes in the room and says, "So, you're here for a hernia?"
I told him, "Um... no?" and then did my best to explain what I was there for. He replied that he'd never actually heard of this procedure before, which further bolstered my "zero confidence in this clown" factor. He actually excused himself to "go look it up for a sec."
Anywhich, he finally comes back in, giving me the whole, "Oh yeah... I know what they want. Yeah, I was just kidding back there with the 'never heard of it' thing. Heh..." Of course, he goes on to criticize the whole "aspirating with a thin needle" method -- the method that's apparently really quick and doesn't hurt. Instead, he wants to do a few "core needle biopsies," just to make sure they get enough to send to the lab. I'm like, "Dude, I weigh like 98 pounds -- three core needle biopsies is a third of my fucking body weight!"
Then he says, "Hey, we can do it right now, if you'd like." Shit, why the fuck not, Dr. Magoo. Bring it!
So, we go into this mini surgery room and he instructs me to lie on this skinny table. The nurse comes in and he tells her what he wants to do and, get this, she opens this li'l recipe box and pulls out a soiled, weathered index card, that apparently has the fucking directions for the procedure written on it. I'm just lying there, alternating between thinking, "I am SO going to be dead in about eight minutes," and "I sure as fuck hope that's the procedure card and not the process for preparing a goddamn brisket."
What happens next is a blur. First the dude shaves half of my fucking stomach -- DRY -- and then wipes alcohol over the freshly, DRYLY shaved patch. Excuse me but OW, MOTHERFUCKER! Then he spreads a surgery sheet thing over it and tells me he's going to numb the area. Needle. Hey! Stings! STINGS! Then he says, "Okay, first I'm gonna punch out a hole..." WHAT?! I'll punch out YOUR hole! Actually, I didn't feel that part, so his hole was saved... momentarily. Then he gets out this fucking mongo needle thing, like two feet long, and tells me he's gonna stick it in that fresh hole and grab some samples. At this point, I'm convinced he's making this shit up just to fuck with me. He says there's going to be a loud "Click!" which there was, but I didn't feel it, so again, his hole was spared.
Then, as quickly as it started, it was over. He bandaged me up, told me not to swim for a coupla days and that was it. At that point, I finally had the nerve to look down at my stomach -- my bandaged, half-hairless stomach. Great. That'll go over really well at the pool. What is more repulsive to an early 20-something lifeguard -- a skinny, middle-aged man covered in way-too-much body hair OR a skinny, middle-aged man covered in way-too-much body hair with a giant patch of said hair shaved off on one side of his abdomen? Oh, and with a band-aid covering a fresh hole on said bald patch. It's quite a toss-up... and I'm thinking people will be "tossing up" either way.
So, now I'm just sitting here, feeling slightly nauseated, waiting for the sepsis to set in. Should be any minute now... like a black death-cloak.
Oh, and Count Von Fuckula's office called this afternoon and scheduled my bone marrow biopsy for Tuesday. Can't wait for that pig-fuck. The Old Lady's going with me, so she'll be able to identify the body quicker when it's all over.
Hey, maybe the Count can use the same hole that Dr. Magoo made!