Who’s the Doctor

“Turn your head and cough.”

As I did so, a stream of mucus, blood, and various acidic compounds spurted onto the doctor’s immaculate pant-leg. Deeply abashed, I tried to distract him by asking about his children.

“How old is the one with the ridiculous comb-over?” I laughed, pointing to a family portrait on his desk.

“That’s me.”

I straightened my collar. “Tough room!”

These kinds of medical evaluations always give me butterflies in my stomach. And moths.

“This next section is multiple choice…”

“I can’t do it!” I sobbed, “I’m a fraud! A two-bit hooligan! Why did I think I could pass this exam?!”

“Now calm down,” the doctor reassured me as he dabbed his galoshes with a wet tissue. “Just tell me what’s up.”

“What’s up, doc?!” I sneezed violently. “My step’s got no pep! I’ve got ants in my pants! My superiority complex has an inferiority complex! I think I’ve got multiple personalities, and so do I!”

“Go on.” He took out a clipboard.

“Bright lights hurt my ears. My shadow is losing weight. And my high blood pressure is low, too!”

He scribbled furiously. “Go on!”

“I’m dangerously short for a man of my weight. My bald spot is covered with hair. And I don’t have the energy to be hyperactive,” I yawned.

The clipboard was starting to smoke. “What kind of environment did you grow up in?”

“My parents were addicted to placebos. Our house didn’t have an exit that you could go into.”

“Astounding,” he mumbled, “were you successful in dating?”

“Well, I fell in love with the baker’s daughter. Her family was rolling in dough. Then I fell in love with the mortician’s daughter, but anyone cadaver.”

“I see,” he said, putting down the clipboard. “And does your face hurt?”

I blinked. “Why, no, it doesn’t.”

“Well, it’s killing me. Here,” he handed me a form with his signature at the bottom. “I’m clearing you for work on the condition that you leave this office and never come back.”

“What if I come forward?”