I was cutting into my steak and I noticed I was making some really precise and beautiful cuts. Maybe it was skill, or maybe it was all of these years of being a fat-ass who likes to eat fatty red meat. Either way, my knife work was excellent. Then it hit me, maybe I was born to be a surgeon.
Now, I know it takes more than just tearing into a T-bone to become a licensed doctor. It’ll take me months to get a degree from a highly regarded Tijuana medical school. I also know that there are plenty of other aspects of being a doctor I need to fully grasp. For example, I need to work on my bedside manner. I have a nasty habit of telling people who are hurt to ‘rub some dirt on it and walk it off’.
I also need to learn about prescribing the right medicine instead of giving people Tic-Tac’s. Sure, the pain wouldn’t go away, but their breath would be minty fresh. Actually, that’s how you could tell who my patients were. They’d be the ones constantly moaning in pain, but would smell terrific.
You know, the real reason I was good at cutting the meat (as well as the cheese, but that’s another story) is because I was also using a fork and I’m not sure that would fly too far in the operating room. My surgeries would go down the tubes because of it, “Nurse, pass me the scalpel. Now the clamps. Now the salad fork. What do you mean we don’t have a salad fork?! What kind of rinky-dink hospital is this anyway?!”
Oh well, maybe I should just stick to playing doctor with my girlfriend. At least I don’t have to worry about being slapped with a malpractice suit with her. But then again, I do take the game very seriously. I pay attention to every detail like wearing the lab coat, using the stethoscope, and making sure my interns take precise notes. She gets creeped out by having a bunch of medical school students in the bedroom, but how else are they going to learn?
-B
0 comments:
Post a Comment