I decided today was the time to speak of or, in fact write on, matters medical. And, in spite of your obvious shock at this revelation, I am not, in fact, a doctor. Although I pretended to be one frequently when I was a young boy. That was for a different reason, however. And before you throw up your hands in horror, I didn’t pretend I was qualified.
Unlike the doctors in Government hospitals in South Africa.
No, I pretended to be a gynaecologist, and In was pretty effective at that charade.
Nevertheless, let me ramble on no more, but instead tell you a true story (would I lie?) of a lady (we will, for the sake of the story, presume she was a lady. Who knows, she may just have been a woman) who went to see her gynaecologist and said, ‘Those hormone tablets you’ve been giving me? They’re no good!’
They gynae frowns in puzzlement (that’s what they do, you see) and says, ‘Why do you say that?’
She opens her top and says, ‘Look at this! I got hair growing all over my chest!’
‘That’s astonishing! How far does it go down?’
‘All the way to my balls, and that’s something else I want to talk to you about.’
Now I know I ended that sentence on a preposition, which is wrong, but the poor lady was distraught, and grammar was the last thing on her mind at the time.
And just the other day I met a bearded lady and when I suggested electrolysis, she told me that it was the result of one face-lift too many.
One of my other pet peeves, and I have many, is the youth of today. They are going to pot. Not because of the calls for its legalisation, but for their sheer lack of manners. A doctor told me just recently of examining a young man and saying, ‘You’re going to have to stop masturbating.’
‘Why?’ he sneered.
‘Because I’m trying to examine you.’
I put it all down to lack of discipline at home and school. We would never have done that in front of our school doctors nor, in fact, in front of our parents.
And being at that age where I take Viagra to prevent peeing on my slippers in the morning, this story is particularly poignant.
An old bobbe (Yiddish for grandmother, for the uninitiated) goes to the doctor, who says, ‘What seems to be the problem, Mrs Rabinowitz?’
‘Mit de back, all de time it hoits, an mit my jaw and my teet’, I can’t eat anyth’ing, but it hoits. Also, I got a crink in my knee, so ven I valk, oy, oy, oy!’
‘Well, get undressed so long, Mrs Rabinowitz, I have a patient to see next door. When I come back, I’ll examine you.’ And he goes next door. When he comes back a few minutes later, it’s to find her fully clothed. He thinks perhaps her understanding of English is not too good, so he repeats it in Yiddish, and leaves the room. When he comes back, she still there, fully dressed. ‘Mrs Rabinowitz, I need you to get undressed!’
Very shyly, she says, ‘Doctor, you get undressed foist.’
And finally, a story to gladden the heart of every man.
We in the Medical Profession call it the Last Drop Syndrome, and every man knows exactly of what it is I speak. That’s how you should say things, not dangling participles and ending sentences on prepositions…
For the uninitiated, most women, the Last Drop Syndrome is what happens to a man when he’s been to the toilet and, after putting willie firmly away, feels a drop run down his leg. The infamous last drop.
So, after discovering that a Urologist has developed an operation to put an end to this syndrome, he is inundated by a request for said operation. The young man who turns up has it really bad. Re-e-eaally b-a-a-d!
Every time he pees, no matter how careful he is with his post-pee ministrations, as he puts willie away, the last drop leaks out and runs down his leg. So he’s desperate.
The operation scheduled, he is wheeled into surgery, somewhere in the South Pole, it seems and is rendered unconscious. A sheet is placed over him. With a hole over his willie and a hole over his nose.
The surgeon extracts a nose hair and very carefully grafts it into the single eye. And they wheel him back out again.
He spends the rest of the day in hospital, drinking lots and lots of water, until the pressure becomes too much to bear, and he rushes through to the bathroom, releasing a jet of streaming, porcelain-shattering, eye-watering relief. He then goes through his usual post-pee ministrations and watches willie carefully and, as he’s watching, the last drop comes out.
‘Sh!t! The operation didn’t work!’
And the nose hair goes, ‘Sniff!’
Ain’t medical science wonderful?