Yet Another Reason to Pay Your Call Girl…

call girlDuring a break in our Maze series, while drinking camomile tea and meditating on my navel–or at least that part still visible–I came across a little sidebar news blurb in our local paper that caught my eye.

To wit:

A Wollochet Bay-area man who shot an intruder sent to his home to beat him up for refusing to pay for $22,000 worth of sex acts pleaded guilty to a drug charge in connection with the incident.

Terry Riggs, 58, pleaded guilty to unlawful manufacturing of marijuana and second-degree unlawful possession of a firearm…

Pierce County sheriff’s deputies discovered about 20 marijuana plants in Riggs’ home while inverstigating a shooting. Prosecutors allege a woman sent two friends to Riggs’ home Jan 2nd because he owed her for sex acts and refused to pay.

The two men donned masks and tried to break into Riggs’ house. They beat up Riggs, who then shot one of the intruders…

He was not charged in the shooting. Police said he acted in self-defense.

Now, those who are regular readers here will quickly surmise that I am no proponent of visiting ladies of the evening–it’s a bad idea, no matter how you slice it. Wisdom dictates that all you stallions hang with the filly you brought to the dance, if you catch my drift. And fellows getting entangled with the law over prostitutes is hardly newsworthy nowadays, but…

$22,000 in sex acts??!! Yes, that’s two 2’s before the comma. 22k. 220 Franklins.

Whoa, nelly.

That’s a lot of buck for the bang.

Now, I’m not quite 58, not dead yet, and certainly have no plans to visit the working ladies, but I can tell you that $200 in sex acts would probably kill me–assuming my wife didn’t first. But $22,000 worth? The mind boggles..

No wonder he was growing medicinal marijuana.

The Stallion

stallion


Vignette #1: His surgery went smoothly–dozens of sutures too fine for the unaided eye, reconstructing his vasectomy to restore fertility. The outcome was promising, the young couple quite excited at the possibilities. His recovery was uneventful, so his call a week or so later was a bit of a surprise.

“How’s everything going?”

“I feel great!”

“Good. Any problems or questions?”

“Doc, you said I should wait ten days before we have sex.”

“Yes, that would be a good idea.”

“Is there any problem with … toys?”

Toys … Teddy bears? Legos? Fire engines?TOYS! … Oh.

Don’t ask.

“I … don’t think so … just don’t do anything … crazy, ya know?”

“OK, Doc, I won’t. Thanks!!” Click.


Vignette #2: She was good natured, but quite demented–and looked every day of her 84 years. She sat, her daughter beside her, her plasticine smile frozen softly in contemplation of some other cosmos. I struggled to elicit a history of her illness–a task well beyond her cognitive means. Finally, having coaxed all the information I could, I advised her it was time for a physical exam.

I stood up, and turned to leave the room so she could prepare in private.

She turned to her daughter, calling her by the wrong name: “What did he say?”

“He wants you to get undressed for your exam.”

“Oh, sweetie, I’d love to take my clothes off for him!”

The door latched softly behind me, entombing forever the fervent hopes and feverish dreams of midlife mojo.


Vignette #3: He was, by any standards, physically unassuming: thinning, curly hair, slightly dishevelled; thick black glasses clashing harshly against a pasty cratered complexion; picket-fence teeth weathered by smoke and caffeine; gaunt not from aerobic workouts but neurotic hyperactivity. Whatever your first impressions, one thought would never come to mind:

Chick magnet.

He was younger than most–early 50’s–but his prostate obstruction was severe, requiring surgery. He arrived at the office two days later to have the catheter removed.

The balloon deflated, the catheter slid out easily and painlessly. I was not prepared for the question.

“Will this make me sexy?”

Sexy. Sexy. Say wha…?!

“Sexy?”

“Yeah–I’m quite the stallion, ya know…”

No, I didn’t. I really, really didn’t.


Brokeback Bomber

brokeback bomberSome of you may have heard of the newest multicultural project, designed to bring peace to the troubled Middle East. This project, a movie, will discuss the struggles of homosexuals in Muslim countries. Although there is no official release date, and the title–up until now–has been an industry secret, I was pleased and surprised to receive a call from the director, Parvez Sharma. Mr. Sharma (who insisted I call him “Parv”, although it sounds a little different given his accent) has asked me to do a musical soundtrack for the film–and how cool is that, eh? Dude! And my readers will be pleased to know that you are the very first to hear it’s release title: Brokeback Bomber. It is–I can tell you, having attended an early screening–a heartwarming tale, as two aspiring jihadists huddle together for warmth as the flames die down from a nearby car bomb, their eyes meeting in a transfixing and transformative gaze from behind their ski masks, as love among the ruins blossoms, their emotional wires crossed in ways neither could anticipate nor comprehend … but I don’t want to give away the plot, you’ll just have to see it for yourself.

Anyway, I’ve been working on the soundtrack, and have come up with a few artist and song ideas, so I thought I’d run them by my bright and discerning audience to get some feedback, and perhaps a few new ideas. Here’s the list I have so far:

  • Shorty was da Bomb by DMX
  • Dead Souls by Nine Inch Nails
  • The Ski Mask Way by 50 Cent
  • You Dropped a Bomb on Me by Kool & the Gang
  • Almost Heaven by Los Lonely Boys
  • Blowin’ in the Wind by Bob Dylan
  • Don’t Fear the Reaper by Blue Oyster Cult
  • Pieces of You by Jewel

Feel free to make any other suggestions, and let’s together make this a project we can all be proud of!

Everybody Must Get Stoned

subwooferHe was an average-looking kid, maybe 25, what statisticians might call “an outlier”–not quite strange enough to be bizarre, but definitely a bit “out there”–a little “goosey” in mannerisms, pleasant but slightly inappropriate in the things he laughed at, with his facial expressions, and with those other subliminal messages some call “body language.” I entered the exam room, to find him bobbing and tapping to the pulsing sounds emanating from his iPod ear buds–audible only to him, shutting out the world around–except for the chess game he played on his pocket PDA.

Healthy kid, seemed bright enough. Had rolled into the ER a few weeks ago with a classic story: severe pain in the flank, blood in the urine, vomiting–a typical kidney stone. The ER got his pain under control, and sent him home.

“So, how are you feeling now?”

“Pretty good–I think I passed the stone.”

“How’d that go for you?”

“Well, I talked with my buddy, and he told me they use sound waves to break up kidney stones.”

“Yes, they do.”

“So I decided to try that out.”

“How’s that?”

“I went home, and turned up my subwoofer.”

Silence.

“Your…subwoofer? I … I don’t think that would do it…”

“Well, you’ve never heard my subwoofer!”

The stone was gone–resistance was futile. I sent him happily on his way.

But somehow I suspect I could have heard his subwoofer–if I had been within a 10 mile radius of his home, anyway…

Voice Recognition Redux

trollSeveral months ago, I upgraded my voice recognition software to Dragon NaturallySpeaking version 8. I have been using voice recognition software for over five years now, and have been very satisfied with it, although older versions could be maddening at times–and hilarious at others. This version is amazingly accurate–my only complaint since upgrading is that I am not having nearly as much fun proofreading my notes as I have the past.

Voice recognition software is rather remarkable technology, and to watch the medical version crank out complex terms with aplomb is almost magical. The software does not make spelling errors, but contextual errors are relatively common, and need to be carefully screened before sending your documents out the door.

A few of the contextual swaps I have encountered are as follows:

What I said: The patient said Viagra wasn’t working, and wanted to try Cialis.

What it typed: The patient said Viagra wasn’t working, and wanted to try and see Alice.

What I said: The patient was thoroughly reevaluated by her previous physician.

What it typed: The patient was thoroughly violated by her previous physician.

What I said: The patient will be started on depot testosterone.

What it typed: The patient will be started on devil testosterone.

What I said: The patient has prepubertal pubic hair changes.

What it typed: The patient had puréed pubic hair oranges.

The accuracy of this latest version has made such–ahem!–interesting errors quite a bit less common — to the point where I was becoming a bit complacent about careful proofreading. That is, until today:

What I said: The patient was seen several years ago for problems of urge incontinence, and has been on Detrol with good symptom relief.

What it typed: The patient was seen several years ago for problems of urge incontinence, and has been on a troll with good symptom relief.

And you thought they spent their entire lives living under bridges

Duck Tales

Ducks
A family practitioner, an internist, and a surgeon go duck hunting.

A bird flushes from the tall grass, flies overhead, and the FP says, “Gee, kinda looks like a duck,” and shoots it.

Another bird flushes from the reeds, flies over, and the internist sights it. “Duck, rule out pheasant, rule out goose,” he says, and shoots it.

A third bird flies overheard. The surgeon raises his gun. BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! Then he looks at the others. “What was that?” he asks.

(Hat tip: Blogs–aka Won Yuan Gai)