Overheard at home

Thing 1: "Pete was back at school today."

Thing 2: "Was he sick?"

Thing 1: "He was in the hospital. They had to do surgery."

Thing 2: "What happened?"

Thing 1: "He had appendagitis. His appendage was hurting. It's near your stomach. Anyway, the doctor cut it out."

Thing 2: "I didn't know that."

Thing 1: "I read somewhere that you don't really need your appendage anyway. I bet you could sell it for a lot of money."

Nowhere to hide

Our office break room is small, but practical. A table, microwave, toaster, fridge, coffee maker. A few chairs. A bathroom off to the side.

Yesterday a new drug rep brought lunch. She was a nice lady.

After lunch the staff were cleaning up the kitchen. Packing up leftovers, wiping the table. As usual they were chatting about the patients, Dancing With The Stars, their kids, etc.

At some point the conversation turned to the drug rep, and they were guessing as to how far along in her pregnancy she was, and whether she was having a boy or a girl.

And then the bathroom door opened. The drug rep was in there the whole time. They thought she'd left.

And she isn't pregnant.

My readers write

Okay, folks, time to hit the mail bag!

This letter came in today from a reader who says he's working at the NIH.

"I shadowed a pediatric neurologist this week. It was certainly interesting, but up until today I'd have guessed your blog was a little exaggerated in terms of humor.

That was before clinic this afternoon.

I saw the patient, an adorable four year old girl, grab the neurologist's reflex hammer from out of her coat, run over to the PA, and, uh, test his reflexes.

I'm not a physician, so I'm not sure if grabbing your crotch after it's been walloped with a reflex hammer is actually a reflex, but it sure was funny. Well, maybe not for the PA.

The kid really, really liked that hammer. The attending actually GAVE IT BACK to her later to buy her cooperation in the exam. I shielded my groin, so the patient had to settle for beating my leg with it.

Seems like a great field. I'll just remember to wear a cup."

Thank you! Just remember, folks- anyone who thinks this stuff doesn't happen, hasn't had the misfortune to work in the medical field.

So much for healthy eating

Apparently barter is becoming popular again.

She could at least have included some breadsticks.

Reliable sources

Mrs. Popliteal: "I've been having terrible pain in my knee. It needs an MRI."

Dr. Grumpy: "Hmmm. Have you talked to your internist about this?"

Mrs. Popliteal: "No, I talked to this lady at the Post Office."

Dr. Grumpy: "A lady at the..."

Mrs. Popliteal: "She was wearing a knee brace, so she must have known what she was talking about. Anyway, she said I need an MRI. Will you order one?"

Sounds right

Mr. Vague: "My mom died of vascular disease."

Dr. Grumpy: "What kind?"

Mr. Vague: "I don't know. The bad kind, I guess."

Oh no! Not BOTH!

I found this entry, presumably from the Department of Redundancy Department, in a hospital note this morning.

(click to enlarge)

Flattery

Mary: "Okay, your co-pay for today's visit is $50."

Mr. Aetna: "No, my co-pay is $25."

Mary: "It's $25 for your internist, sir. According to your card, a specialist, like Dr. Grumpy, is $50."

Pause

Mr. Aetna: "Here's $25. He wasn't that special."

Always in fashion

I'm ordering supplies this morning, and found this picture in the online catalog.





I just love the way they try to make the flimsy white paper gown look sexy. Maybe they should add a caption that says "Perfect for work, cocktail parties, and medical exams."

Today's criminal tip

When planning a burglary, you may need to ask your friends for help.

Or your family for help.

But, whatever you do, DON'T ASK THE COPS FOR HELP!!!

Homework

This weekend Craig had to read a chapter on world hunger, and answer a few questions on it.

So I was checking to make sure he'd done it, and encountered this:

"What are some causes of world hunger?"

He'd written: "In those countries they don't have stuff like pizza and hamburgers. They only eat gross food, and who wants that?"

Weekend Reruns

Dear Mr. I. M. A. "Rich" Azzhole III,

I'm sorry about the way things went at your appointment yesterday. I guess you and I just didn't have great chemistry.

I can understand you being frustrated with me. Obviously, a man of your means is used to people kissing his ass constantly. But here at Grumpy Neurology, it doesn't buy you much. Let's face it, Medicare pays me the same amount to put up with you as it pays me to put up with Mr. Nice Butpoor. If you were paying me $1000/hour to listen to your stories about the yacht club I might be more inclined to do so. But I'm only going to get Medicare's flat $115 for you, and my billing company gets 10% of that, and I have to pay Mary, Annie, my rent, the Diet Coke bill, and my malpractice insurance out of the rest.

Anyway, we were obviously off to a bad start when you told Mary that your regular doctor (who you pay cash to) dresses up for you. And this was before you even had a look at me. You also were not happy that, when you asked Mary what kind of refreshments we offer for waiting patients, she pointed to the water cooler.

I SO enjoyed being grilled over my credentials. I really am a doctor, I swear, not some homeless person who decided to rent an office, hire some staff, and buy some cheap office furniture just for the hell of it. You were clearly not impressed that I went through public schooling most of my life. Of course I've heard of your alma mater, but it was so much more fun to watch the horrified expression on your face when I pretended I hadn't, and then asked you if it was in Arkansas. The devil made me do, what else can I say?

I think we reached the low point during the appointment when, after I'd spent 30 minutes taking your windy history, and another 20 minutes examining you, your heavily plasticized wife (who may be putting arsenic in your prunes- watch out) asked me "So when will the doctor come in to talk to us?" That made me feel real special.

So when I heard you tell Mary that you didn't want to schedule a follow-up with me, and wanted to discuss matters with your internist, I knew this translated to "I'm never coming back here and am complaining to my internist about you". And guess what? I don't care.

Be careful the automatic door doesn't hit... oh, sorry, guess I should have warned you sooner.

This is your brain on drugs

You saved $60 (no idea how you got it) to buy your favorite treat: crack cocaine.

But your dealer has hosed you, and only sold you $20 worth of rocks, and won't give you the $40 change he owes you.

So who ya gonna call? Ghostbusters?

Nope. If you're this dude, you call 911.

Thank you, Alex!

But that's the problem, isn't it?

I'd like to thank Nicole, for sending in this headline from an online Psychology journal.

(click to enlarge)