BUSTED!!!

The following message was left on Mary's voicemail at 10:08 this morning:

"Hi, this is Karen Java. I have a 10:00 appointment with Dr. Grumpy, and I'm running late. Traffic is horrible (whispered: grande, please, with whip cream), and I think there's an accident or something (whispered: and a blueberry scone, too). Anyway, it's bumper-to-bumper, so I may be a few minutes late (whispered: Thank you, I have a gift card, here). Sorry. I'll be there as soon as I can."

Wedded bliss

Dr. Grumpy: "Ma'am, have you noticed if you wear one shoe down more than the other?"

Mrs. Marcos: "I'm not sure."

Mr. Marcos: "You can't tell. Doc, you should see her closet. I don't think she's ever worn the same pair twice."

Drug interactions

I'd like to thank Effenormous Pharmacy for this fax. They sent it yesterday, warning me that a drug I'd prescribed (Drug A) had a potential interaction with one from the patient's internist, Dr. Tutone (Drug B).

Except for the names and phone numbers, I haven't changed anything.

(click to enlarge)




And thank you Dr. Pissy for volunteering his handwriting!

I guess that would be Dr. Grumpy then

Guy walks in, stands at front desk.

Mary: "Are you here to see Dr. Pissy or Dr. Grumpy?"

Mr. Guy: "Sure! Which one works here?"

Mary: "They both do."

Mr. Guy: "Yeah, I'll see that one."

Taking requests

Mrs. Znot: "I brought my head MRI films. It was done yesterday, and I want you to show me something."

(hands me a DVD)

Dr. Grumpy: (loading disk in computer): "Sure. What are you wondering about?"

Mrs. Znot (pulls out plastic baggie with disgusting little green slimy object): "This."

Dr. Grumpy: "Uh... That's..."

Mrs. Znot: "It's a huge booger..."

Dr. Grumpy: "Yes, I can see that."

Mrs. Znot: "... and I blew it out of my nose about an hour after the MRI, so can you show it to me in the pictures?"

Day at the races

This past weekend, for those of you who were fortunate enough to miss it, was (at least in my area) the Boy Scouts Pinewood Derby.

This annual event was actually once rated as one of the 100 greatest things about America (Reader's Digest magazine, 2006). I can only assume that the author had never been involved in one, or that in 2006 the country had absolutely gone to hell.

The point of this "friendly competition" is to build little cars and race them down a slanted track. Each 8-11 year old is given a standardized block of wood and 4 wheels, and can do what they want with them. Since the stakes are so high (winner gets a plastic trophy from Big Lots), the cars are carefully examined, weighed, and locked away 3 days before the race. This is to make sure that illegal modifications, like adding a jet engine, aren't carried out.

The whole part about this being a competition among the boys is absolute BS. It's between their testosterone charged fathers, living vicariously through the kids. Dads build the cars, and (occasionally) let junior make a few finishing touches (like putting a Pokemon decal on).

Of course, no one actually admits to this. So at each derby one of the finest moments is when the person in charge brings in the cars from the nuclear-bomb proof hiding location, and boys go ask dad which car is theirs. "Oh! That's mine? Cool job, Dad!"

(In our family, it's actually Mrs. Grumpy who does all this. I'm just a shill).

You can always tell the ones that the boys actually made themselves because they have uneven paint jobs, strange angles, and an odd number of wheels. Of course, they never win a race, because they're no match for the ones that some dad, who by day designs jet fighters for Lockheed, built (and claimed his kid did, using a wind tunnel testing facility that's coincidentally in the basement).

They ask you to arrive at 6:00 p.m. SHARP, which is a joke. The races never start on time.

So we arrived at the Wingnut Elementary School cafeteria at exactly 6:00, to find they'd just started setting up. To lend atmosphere (and help us forget that we were in a school cafeteria) some guys were hanging racing posters and pennants everywhere. A bunch of moms were off in one corner setting up a bake sale. And, most importantly, several dads were putting up the racing track, grading it with a computerized angle & level measuring device, as if it were made of gold.

While this is going on, to get you in a cheerful mood, they show fun racing moments on a large screen: cars and drivers in gory high-speed wrecks, flaming rocket boats hurtling out-of-control into screaming crowds, Indy cars exploding as they fuel up, and other humorous stuff.

Finally the races begin. This is kicked off by them blasting early 90's dance music. So if you've had a burning desire to hear C & C Music Factory, M.C. Hammer, and (not early 90's) ENDLESS replays of "The History of Rock & Roll, part 2"*, this is the place to be.

Each race features 4 cars, and they run them 3-4 times each, changing lanes each time. The race itself takes 5-10 seconds. Then they hand-carry the cars back to the starting point. Each is then reinspected (to make sure their owner didn't, say, use a blowgun to secretly attach a V8 engine while they were going down the track), carefully returned to the starting gate, and we begin again. And in the background 2 guys are still busy putting up racing poster decorations.

The race results are presented on a constantly-changing computerized time sheet, projected on the wall. This, I swear, measures finishing times TO SIX DECIMAL PLACES (i.e. 5.756381 seconds). Because, you know, that kind of space-travel level of precision is absolutely necessary when small wooden blocks are rolling down a track. And the dads obsessively stare at this like it's a topless dancer, while the kids play their Nintendo DS.

At some point your kids come to you asking for money. Why? Because they're selling pizza and various other junk food. They even asked you to bring something, because it's "for a good cause" (they never tell you what the good cause is. For all I know it's Botox for the counter lady). So you stop at Costco, pick up a HUGE box of Oreos, and give them to her. The Oreos are then marked up to 50 cents each, and the box is now worth more than an equivalent amount of plutonium. We discovered it was best to feed the kids before leaving our house, and making sure we have nothing but credit cards when we get there. "They only take cash? Sorry, kids."

This insanity goes on for 3-4 freakin' hours. Most people start to leave as soon as their kid is disqualified from the finals, but some parents (due to, say, their wives secretly signing them up to be involved in taking apart the damn track and not telling you about it until you ask if you can leave yet, for example) are stuck there until the bitter end. So you tap your feet and watch 2 guys continue to heroically put up racing posters.

Toward the end you start looking for something to do. Like helping the school janitor put away the folding chairs (he wants to go home, too). So if anyone stands up, you grab their chair and toss it in the closet, hoping they weren't planning on sitting down again. I figured if anyone fell and hurt themselves, I could hand out business cards.

Finally, it's over. If your kid didn't win, you don't care who did. As you're leaving, you notice the 2 guys are finally finishing putting up the last racing poster.


*Kind of ironic considering how Gary Glitter ended up, eh?

We all scream for ice cream

My kids (okay, me too) like ice cream. Who doesn't?

And whenever a new, cool-sounding flavor shows up at Local Ice Cream Shoppe, I'll usually try a taste spoon, and maybe order it.

This one, however, I'll have to think about... Even if it is artisanal.

Thank you, Wellillbe!

Early Sunday morning rounds

I got dragged into the hospital to do a consult, and discovered this line in another doctor's dictation:

"I warned the patient that potential problems could include death, serious complications of death, and severe death."

What a deal

Webhill sent in this non-artisanal restaurant sign that she passed on the street recently.





Personally, I don't want to pay $21.99 to get crabs. Even if the lady in the picture is the one giving them to me. That special shampoo is expensive.

But I do like the camera angle, which appears to have been used so you can personally verify whether or not she does, indeed, have crabs.

After winning Jeopardy! Watson goes to work at a pharmacy

And totally screws things up.





And yes I ALWAYS write refills in whole numbers.

A Day in the Life

Mr. Voice: "Hello, Megalithic Suxshit Insurance Company, can I help you?"

Dr. Grumpy: "Hi, this is Dr. Ibee Grumpy. In the past 2 days I've faxed you the same form on a patient 3 times and..."

Mr. Voice: "We haven't received a form from you at all, Mr. Grumpy."

Dr. Grumpy: "...and each time I do you guys call a few hours later to say you haven't received it yet."

Mr. Voice: "What number are you faxing it to Mr. Grumpy?"

Dr. Grumpy: "It's Dr. Grumpy. I faxed it to 1-800-FAX-HERE, the number printed at the top of the form."

Mr. Voice: "Mr. Grumpy, that's the wrong number. You should be faxing it to 1-800-SUX-SHIT. Where did you get that other number?"

Dr. Grumpy: "It's the only fax number on the form! It's at the top of the page, right next to a sentence that says 'Please fax this form to the following number.' "

Mr. Voice: "Just because it says that on the form doesn't mean you were supposed to fax it there."

Dr. Grumpy: "Okay, but if the number to fax it to ISN'T the one on your form, how do I find out what the number is that I'm supposed to use?"

Mr. Voice: "You need to request that number by sending us a fax."

Hazards of the job

Mrs. Ancient didn't show up for an appointment last week. Mary had left a reminder message on her machine the day before, but she didn't come in. It happens, and so I moved on to my next patient and forgot about it.

Last evening we were having the usual home night. Doing homework, asking kids to brush their teeth for the 18th time, etc, when my cell phone rang.

Dr. Grumpy: "This is Dr. Grumpy."

Mr. Policeman: "Hi, this is Officer Badge of the Grumpyville Police. Is Mrs. Ancient a patient of yours?"

Dr. Grumpy: "Uh, yeah, what's up?"

Mr. Policeman: "Well, we were notified today about uncollected mail. We entered her home tonight, and found her lying dead in her bed. It looks like she's been there a few weeks. There's a message on her answering machine from your office..."


Poor Mrs. Ancient.


This morning I told Mary about it.

Mary: "OMG! So you mean the whole time I was talking into her answering machine she was really lying there..."

Dr. Grumpy: "Uh-huh."

(sigh)

Dr. Grumpy: "When did the dizziness start?"

Mrs. Batty: "Well, I saw you for it last year! Don't you remember?"

Dr. Grumpy: "Hmmm. I don't see dizziness mentioned anywhere in your chart..."

Mrs. Batty: "It's the same thing, but a year ago I called it a headache. Except it's really not a headache at all. It's never been a headache. And I want to know why you didn't tell me it wasn't a headache in the first place. You're a doctor, and should know better."

New policy, Marie

This year the Girl Scouts are requiring background checks on people looking to buy cookies, to prevent unfortunate incidents of this type from happening.