Thank you for today's great "breaking news" headline.
(click to enlarge)
I'm glad to know NASA finally discovered the first Earth-sized planets in the universe. All this time I thought I was living on an "Earth-sized" planet, but apparently I was wrong.
For that matter, I always thought Venus was roughly "Earth-sized." I guess you found the "Earth-sized" planets are actually somewhere else.
So, when you decide what size planet the Earth is, please let me know. In case I ever get on Jeopardy or something.
We've all had one of those embarrassing moments when we desperately need a spare pair of underwear. How often does thinking about this problem keep you awake at night?
Well, worry no more! Now there's the emergency Box-o-Undies!
Yes, this convenient package holds 5 pairs of clean, single-use underpants. Allowing you to go back to your favorite Mexican restaurant with confidence.
I should note that tonight is the first night of Hanukkah, and so I again present the traditional Hanukkah carol.
Men like breasts and women like wine. So what could be a better compromise than this?
According to it's web site the Wine Rack will increase an A cup to a DD, and holds 750ml of your favorite Cabernet (or whatever you prefer), with a discreet sipping tube. And you can inflate it with air after depleting the wine, to keep things looking "as advertised."
Last night was that annual rite of parental torture, the Wingnut Elementary School band holiday concert.
My kids like playing in the school band, so, as supportive parents, we pay the instrument rental fees, put up with their unearthly screeching practice sessions in the living room, and attend the 2 annual concerts.
Elementary school band concerts are never a blast. They're held in the school cafeteria, meaning you have to sit at long lunch tables designed to be partially comfortable only for people half your size.
The kids really do try (at least most of them) but are still often out of sync and flat. And then there's the music selection. After the first 2 numbers all the songs start to sound A LOT alike. And they all sound like "Hot Cross Buns," which you've already heard played in your home so many times that you want to barf.
These things last about an hour, but seem like much longer. You sit there, politely clapping after each number, and hope your kids don't notice that you've dozed off or started playing Angry Birds.
As veterans, Mrs. Grumpy and I came well prepared. We sat in a far row where our kids couldn't see if we were playing scrabble doing medical research on our iPhones, and brought some Diet Cokes. You can always tell which parents are first timers, because they sit in the first row and bring cameras.
But this year, we had an unexpected reprieve.
At 18 minutes into the performance, during "Good King Wenceslas" a kid playing oboe abruptly projectile vomited into the first row, showering a group of eager parents with a partially digested Happy Meal. The other band members stopped, then valiantly tried to restart for a few seconds, but were so horribly out of sync as they tried to both read music and watch the new entertainment that it was a lost cause. Barf Guy's mom heroically leaped onto the stage and tried to use her husband's sweater (fortunately with him out of it) to clean it up. Then the kid heaved some more.
After about 30 seconds the band teacher politely said "Thank you all for coming, and Happy Holidays. Is the janitor still here?"
I feel sorry for this kid. Because from now on until he moves away to college he'll be known not as Mike or Steve or Mason, but simply as "the kid who puked during the holiday concert."
What's really enjoyable when you're sound asleep? Is "having a big hairy paw suddenly grab my face" at the top of your list? I didn't think so.
But a Japanese company is hoping that's high on somebody's list. They've developed a teddy bear sleep apnea robot.
It puts a cuddly-looking oxygen sensor on your finger, and if it hears you snoring, or detects your oxygen level dropping, it reaches up with a mechanical paw and wacks your face to make you turn your head.
Here's an informative video:
Personally, I have to say that if I was asleep and this thing grabbed my face, I'd likely shit the bed. So unless the robot is going to clean that up, too, I don't want one.
I understand that you were on the way to work when you came to your appointment today. Many of my patients are.
And I understand that you are a clown. Literally.
But, I don't appreciate having to listen to your horribly corny jokes. Or you honking a bicycle horn after each one. Or showing me your cheesy squirting flower.
And it's hard for me to assess your balance when you wear giant floppy shoes.
But thank you for the smiley face "I met a clown today" sticker that you put on my shirt.
We all have that co-worker/classmate/boss/whatever who's under the impression that their own solid waste doesn't stink. Now there's the perfect gift for that person.
Yes, a few drops of this stuff in the toilet bowl allegedly nullifies any odiforous vapors, and allows them to continue in their belief that their ass smells like roses and cotton candy.
It should be noted that the product only works if you actually shit in the toilet bowl, NOT on top of the tank as the picture suggests.
Dr. Grumpy: "Okay... the MRI report says the study was normal, and this is a good doctor who read it."
Mrs. Kroger: "Yes, but it was horribly misread. I've been comparing my films to some I found on the internet, and here's a list of all the diseases I have that the radiologist missed."
Dr. Grumpy: "Are you a doctor?"
Mrs. Kroger: "No, I'm a cashier at Local Grocery."
I'm going to go out on a limb here and say these findings might be extrapolated to cover my epilepsy, migraine, Parkinson's patients, and pretty much most chronic conditions.
What's the perfect gift for your newly divorced lady friend? Besides a gift certificate to a lawyer and a shitload of chocolate, she'll need some kitchen furnishings for her new place.
So why not get her the Ex-Husband Kitchen Knife Set?
This lovely piece is the perfect combination of culinary equipment, homicidal fantasy, and voodoo doll. And it's available in 7 colors!
Disclaimer: I'm NOT getting paid to show this (or any other gifts). The link is so you can see the other lovely colors (including blood red!) yourself.
Okay, while I do not condone the practice of making meth, I must say that if you're inclined to do so, do it at home, or a meth house, or some private structure.
To me the highlight of the story is that employees called police after noticing she was acting weird. Given what I've seen on my rare trips to WalMart, I'm somewhat reassured to know that they actually do have a cut-off point.
So last night Mrs. Grumpy and I sat outside on our freezing cold patio to have the "what are we getting the pet rats children for Christmakuh?" talk.
While sitting there we suddenly heard this LOUD crunching and rattling noise, which kept getting louder and louder. As we watched, one of Frank's remote-controlled cars (which makes more noise than a garbage truck) came rolling slowly around the hot-tub. With a running digital voice recorder duct-taped to the roof.
I have to give Frank points for innovation, but a "FAIL" for execution. If you're going to spy with a remote-controlled toy, use one that doesn't sound like a garbage disposal.
For whatever reason, someone (who I assume hasn't been taking their medications) sent me a long rambling diatribe about how much they hate doctors. Specifically, the phrase "rich doctors and their fancy cars" was used several times in the rant.
Therefore, in the interest of full disclosure, I hereby list all of the cars that Dr. Grumpy has ever owned:
1982-1983: 1978 Datsun 810 station wagon (if you remember Datsun, you're old, too) 1983: 1979 Pontiac Trans Am (wrecked after 3 months) 1983-1984: 1982 Pontiac Trans Am 1984-1989: 1982 Oldsmobile Cutlass station wagon 1989-1993: 1988 Mercury Cougar 1993-1999: 1990 Infiniti M30 1999 to present: 2000 Nissan Maxima
It should be noted that the current car is the only one I didn't get used. All cars were driven until they were wrecked or completely fell apart, and the cost of repairs exceeded their value.
All cars except the last 3 were shared with siblings and parents. The current one is shared with 3 insane backseat drivers (not including Craig's hair).
It's the middle of the night, and you're using the bathroom. But after sitting down you discover there's either a power outage or the bulb burned out. How often does this happen to you? That many? Have you considered calling an electrician?
Anyway, if this is something a friend of yours deals with regularly, than I have the perfect gift for them: glow-in-the-dark toilet paper!
This miracle is also useful for camping or as an emergency flashlight.
It doesn't say if it will rub off and give you a luminescent anus.
All right, for those of you who are too busy to keep up on breaking medical research that affects our lives, here's a big one:
The Center for Disease Control publishes a weekly report summarizing disease trends. In this week's, among generic items about flu and arthritis, was a case of Campylobacter jejuni (it's a bacterium) infection in 2 sheep-ranch hands in Wyoming.
Normally this bug is spread by contaminated food. But the 2 guys involved hadn't clearly eaten anything known to be an infectious source.
So, after diligent detective work the CDC found this pair had contracted it by castrating lambs.
WITH THEIR TEETH.
Yes, folks. These guys were actually biting off lamb balls. While this was a way of detesticulating sheep back before the germ theory was popular, it's generally fallen out of use.
Except, apparently, for 2 guys in Wyoming.
So, to summarize:
1. Animals carry diseases.
2. When neutering livestock, do not use your teeth as a surgical instrument.
3. Be careful who you kiss on a Wyoming sheep ranch, as you don't know where their mouth has been.
I've always liked the Muppets. One of my favorite songs is "Rainbow Connection," as performed by Kermit at the beginning of their first movie.
For those of you who don't know it:
Anyway, it may be corny, but the song got me through some shitty times. After I failed the first anatomy test in medical school (big time, too- I was the class low out of 120 people) I went to a used record store and bought the Muppet Movie soundtrack just to listen to that song. In a sappy sort of way it reminded me of why I was there in the first place, and I pulled my shit together, didn't drop out of school, and forged ahead.
Life goes on. Medicine is still fun. I mean, I like what I do. I have to earn a living, so I might as well be doing something I like.
And then, one day a few years back, I was having an ordinary day at the office. And toward the end of it was served with my first malpractice suit.
Nothing will kick the shit out of you faster than that moment. Yes medical students and residents, you WILL get sued. Get used to it. Someone on Sermo recently wrote "I have believed for a long time that unless you are practicing grossly negligent medicine your probability of getting sued is small." This is a remarkably ignorant statement.
Getting sued is like cancer- something that happens to other people. I think all doctors, on a superficial level, know it will likely happen. But you're still blindsided when it happens to you.
Obviously, I'm not going to go into legal details of the case, or who won, or even if it was dismissed. Because none of those are relevant to this post.
And I'm sure there are plenty of patients out there who can write how horrible Dr. Butcher maimed you. I'm sure some of you have legitimate claims. But I'm not writing about you.
Malpractice isn't black or white. It's really mostly shades of gray. I'm not biased against lawyers, in fact- my Dad is one, and sued several doctors for malpractice. But I'm not going to get involved in arguments about lawyers vs. doctors, either.
My point is just my own experience.
People portray doctors as being arrogant or uncaring. And I'm sure some are. But anytime a case goes bad, it's personally devastating for most of us. Even if you did nothing wrong. Sometimes shit happens despite your best efforts.
It hurts. A lot. You do your best day in and day out, and feel awful when things go wrong. And now someone is accusing you of having committed malpractice in your efforts. They tell you not to take it personally, but how can you not? Hell, they even name your spouse in the suit (really, they do).
You see, there is always another doctor out there willing to testify in court (for a nice fee, of course) that what you did wasn't appropriate. He's Dr. Jukebox. You put in money and he'll play whatever tune they want him to (it pays a lot better than seeing patients). The statements from these whores will make you feel like shit, and the legal language used makes you sound on a par with Dr. Mengele.
No amount of medical competence can prevent someone from filing a lawsuit against you. Even if you did nothing wrong, there's always a hungry lawyer willing to take the case. After all, it only costs about $100 to file a suit, the potential payoff is 1/3 of the winnings, and he knows a Dr. Jukebox who will gladly testify that you're incompetent.
Your medical school teachers won't tell you what it's like to be sued, but I will.
It's devastating.
It kicks the shit out of you. You lie awake at night wondering if you're going to lose everything you ever worked for. You cry. You think about suicide, but have to go on for your family. With this sword of Damocles hanging over your head, you still have to go to work every day, and do your best for the patients who still depend on you. Some days it's pretty damn hard NOT to start drinking.
And, deep down, you wonder: Am I really incompetent? You question your own judgment. Suddenly every headache patient needs a brain MRI. Every person you see is a time bomb. You start to view them as the enemy.
People use the phrase "defensive medicine" in a derogatory fashion, meaning unnecessary testing doctors order to prevent themselves from being sued. But after it's happened to you, hell, you don't give a fuck how much money the "unnecessary" tests cost. You'll order anything to cover your ass.
And no matter what you did, Dr. Jukebox will testify that it wasn't the right thing. And no amount of literature in your favor will change his "expert" (i.e. well-paid) opinion. The people on the jury deciding your fate aren't medical people.
Even if you win, it still doesn't take away the living hell you and your family are put through for the 3-5 years (yes, years) it takes the case to play out. The sleepless nights, the gray hairs, the stress eating that shortens your time on Earth, and the spouse and kids who worry about you.
And, regardless of the case's outcome, it will forever destroy your Rainbow Connection, and the beliefs that once drove you to dream of being a doctor.
Ms. Hallux: "Hi! Does Dr. Grumpy have Youtube at his office?"
Annie: "I guess so. I mean, we have internet access."
Ms. Hallux: "Okay, my toes do this weird shaky thing at night, and my boyfriend filmed them and put them on Youtube. Can your doctor look at them and tell me what it is?"
Annie: "Are you one of our patients?"
Ms. Hallux: "No, why?"
Annie: "To get the doctor's opinion you're going to have to make an appointment and come in."
Ms. Hallux: "I don't need to come in. I don't have time for that. Can't he just look at the video and tell me what it is?"
Annie: "To give an opinion he'd have to see and examine you, and get a history and..."
Ms. Hallux: "Why does every doctor's office tell me that? No wonder nobody can get proper care anymore." (click)
We all love ice cream cones, but they're a HUGE hassle. I mean, you have to turn and lick them on all sides, otherwise they drip down and get messy. And this is SUCH A BIG PROBLEM that it hardly seems worth the effort to have a cone.
But not any more!
This remarkable product continues the worldwide trend of eating more calories while expending as few as possible, so someday you too can look like the people in WALL-E. You may now experience the ultimate in human laziness, and never worry about getting ice cream on your sneakers again.
Local Hospital has been transitioning to an electronic chart system.
This morning, while on rounds, I dialed in to the hospital system to dictate a consult. I was stunned to be told that my privileges had been suspended for delinquent medical records.
This was a shock, as I treat medical records with an obsession. Every Thursday I stop by medical records and ask if there's anything for me to sign. For the last 6 weeks the girl there has politely checked her computer, then said "Nope, thank you for checking".
So I promptly marched down there:
Dr. Grumpy: "Excuse me, do I have anything to sign today?"
Ms. Helpful: (looking at her computer) "Um, nope. Thank you for checking."
Dr. Grumpy: "Well, when I dialed in, it says I've been suspended for medical records delinquency."
Ms. Helpful: "That's correct. You have over 60 charts to complete, 28 of which are delinquent"
Dr. Grumpy: "WHAT!!! Then why didn't you tell me that?!!"
Ms. Helpful: "You only asked me if you had anything to sign. You have nothing to sign. We are all electronic records now. You don't actually sign anything."
Dr. Grumpy (in shock): "Okay... So how do I complete my records?"
Ms. Helpful: "You have to log into the e-Chart system."
Dr. Grumpy: "No one told me we'd completely switched to e-Charts, or that I had records to complete. How was I supposed to know this?"
Ms. Helpful: "Because the first time you sign in to e-Charts it tells you that".
Were you a perfectly straight heterosexual until you learned to drive, and then, upon getting your license, immediately developed an uncontrollable attraction for your own sex and switched to the other team?
Did you find that handling the steering wheel all-by-yourself made you want to start wildly screwing everything in site and use porn (I think I did, but it likely had more to do with 16 year-old-boy-hormones than my 1978 Datsun 810 station wagon).
In a stunning discovery, the highest religious council of Saudi Arabia has actually discovered these "facts," with a new report warning that if Saudi woman are allowed to drive the population will turn to homosexuality, prostitution, and pornography. It also noted that within 10 years of the ban being lifted, the nation would completely run out of virgins (REALLY!).
It's December 1, the Christmakuh/Kwanzaa/Solstice/Festivus season is upon us, and it's time to roll out the annual holiday gift guide. As always, we at Grumpy Neurology, P.C. scour the internet and catalogs year-round so you don't have to!
In the past I've focused on gifts for humans, but since dogs are a big part of our families, I thought I'd kick off this year with something for them. And what better gift for a furry friend than his own sex doll?
(click to enlarge, if you're into that sort of thing)
Yes, the HotDoll doggy love toy is available in 2 sizes (looks like small and medium from the site, I don't see anything for a Great Dane), and is "made to be easily distinguished by dog’s eyes."
It also notes that "the pink hole needs to be washed regularly for hygienic reasons," a job which will likely spark more family fights than "whose turn is it to pick up the dog poop?"
I can just see this being marketed with The Rolling Stones belting out a modified version of one of their classics:
"Hey! You! Get off of my leg! Don't hang around, or sit up and beg!"
The site doesn't say if there are other models that require batteries, but quite frankly I don't want to know.
Yes, nothing says "Peace and Goodwill" this time of year more than an octogenerian grandmother driving a 1983 Buick with a prescription windshield nearly mowing my kids down in the Costco parking lot to get a space 8 feet closer to the door (and then flipping Marie the bird).
Santa Claus is (roughly) 1700 years old. He's changed dramatically over time, from his original name of St. Nikolaos of Myra to the guy we see in department stores and selling Coke on TV.
So it was only a matter of time before the A-word caught up with him, too.
As many of you have noticed, Officer Cynical shut down his blog.However, I'm honored that he's asked me to publish some rants for him. So today I'm going to feature his ramblings in place of my own. Take it away, Officer!
1. If you're in line at the grocery (or wherever), waiting to pay for your crap at the one open cash register, and then they open a second register and say "I can help the next person", that means they can help the next person in line - the one behind the person who's already paying at the previously sole register. It does NOT mean they can help the person at the back of the line who's been waiting a shorter period of time than everybody else in line. Where the hell have people gotten the idea that a newly opened cash register is for the person at the back of the line?
2. If you're merging onto the interstate (AKA freeway, AKA the "I"), it's your job to MERGE. It's not the job of everybody else to slow down, move over, or anything else. This is usually best accomplished by accelerating up to speed that allows you to fit into a space between two other cars already in the righthand through lane. It is NOT a good strategy to just move over into through traffic when you're doing, say, 35 mph, and those in the righthand lane are doing 60. And, in the name of all that's holy, don't hit the brakes at the end of the entrance ramp because you're scared to merge. The people behind you, who are correctly accelerating up to speed and looking for a place to merge, will tend to hate you and wish you ill.
3. If you've successfully gotten onto the interstate/freeway/"I", please pretend these signs (see attached) actually exist, and heed them.
4. Not being one to send e-mail to porn sites, how did "Ass_Titties" and "HornyGirlHere" get into my list of Hotmail contacts?
As best I remember, it was a pretty ordinary day. I'd had a few medical school interviews the week before, and was trying to catch up on stuff now. I was taking a jazz class, which required me to listen to several hours of records during the semester. So I spent a big chunk of the afternoon in the music library.
I remember it was late, around 6, when I finally finished. I owed my roommate beer, and so I stopped at a store, then headed back to the apartment.
When I finally got home my roommate was at his desk. He was in architecture, and was always working on something. I walked in and said hi. He said "your Dad called, asked you to call him back", and was back to his work.
I began putting the beer in the fridge, and called home. My Dad answered, and when I said "Hi" he paused and then said "Ibee Grumpy, your life has changed forever."
I'd been accepted to medical school.
It's hard to remember all the feelings that went through me. Relief, happiness, nervousness, and an overwhelming gratitude that I'd remembered to buy beer that night. It wasn't great beer, but hell, it was still beer.
I'd tried to get in the year before. Applied to 18 schools, got 2 interviews, accepted to none.
This year I'd applied to, I think 25 or so schools. I got interviews at 10-15, and spent a lot of time flying all over the country. I'd even applied to law school as a back-up (got in, too).
I don't remember much about the rest of the school year. My grades took a dive, since I only cared about passing now. I went to more parties. Baseball games were free at my school, so I went to them, too. One involved me sitting through a record downpour with maybe 10 other fans until they called the game in the 5th.
All right, fans, I've been busy preparing the 2011 edition of the Dr. Grumpy Gift Guide, but it won't be ready for a few days.
However, for those of you already looking for information on semen-shaped jewelry, pink & green men's slacks with giraffes on them, alarm clocks that run away from you, and the other fine products I've featured in the past, there's now
We will never know exactly when it happened, but in my opinion it was the most important event in human history.
Somewhere, probably in Africa (maybe Asia), there was a meeting.
A branch of the primate family that had started walking upright, and a cousin of the gray wolf, first set eyes on each other. And both realized this relationship had potential.
The records show we've been together for at least 15,000 years, but I suspect dogs (and their ancestors) have been leading us around for much longer. It's impossible not to see how useful they must have been as an alarm system and hunting partner going back to our cave days. And being with us gave them steady access to a food supply. So this has been a win-win relationship from the start. Dogs gave humans a better chance to survive, and vice-versa. So we grew up together.
When humans first came across the Bering Strait, they brought dogs with them. There's even the possibility that they couldn't have made the trip without dogs to pull their sleds.
Most relationships would get old after this long, but not us. If anything, our need for them has increased over time, but in different ways. We may not need hunting partners as much, but their incredible skills for guide/assistance animals, security, search & rescue, and many other jobs, make them invaluable.
But the most basic part of the deal is still companionship. Humans seem to have an instinctive need for different species companionship. And they like us, too. Because of the nature of the Grumpy household (3 dogs) there is inevitably at least one in our bed at night, and another in a kid's bed. There's something very primordial about dozing off next to a dog. You can envision our mutual ancestors in a cave, with a fire in the background, huddling together with a wild dog for warmth. And as you fall asleep, the dog has one eye on the entrance to warn you of danger.
And on that note, for those of you who didn't notice her name added last month, I'd like to introduce Mello:
How much is that doggy in the window?
Mello is maybe 2 years old, and was found wandering downtown Grumpyville by employees at Mrs. Grumpy's job. She had no collar or chip, and after combing through multiple lost pet sites, and looking for "lost dog" signs, we were unable to locate her owner. So she has now joined Snowball and Cooper in the Grumpy insane asylum.
Making herself at home.
She is an awesome dog, and we are lucky to have her. Great dogs can be found anywhere. All of the Grumpy dogs have been rescue animals, and if you're looking for a new companion, I recommend adopting from your local shelter.
You (and your new friend) will be thankful you did.
For some reason today I've been infected with an earworm, featuring this classic Monty Python number. So, since I seem to be stuck with it, I'm sharing it with you guys.
This blog is entirely for entertainment purposes. All posts about patients, or my everyday life, or anything else may be fictional, or be my experience, or were submitted by a reader, or any combination of the above. Factual statements may or may not be accurate. I could be making all this up. I may not even be a doctor. The only true statement on here is that I probably drink more Diet Coke than you do. A lot more.
Singing Foo!
Twitter fans- you can follow me @docgrumpy
Cast of Characters:
Annie: My Phenomenal MA Mary: My Awesome Secretary Ed: The office fish Dr. Pissy: The guy I share an office with Mrs. Grumpy:My Boss (also the world's greatest school nurse) Frank, Craig, and Marie:The Grumpy Tribe Garlic and Riley: The Grumpy Dogs
Questions? Comments? Biting sarcasm? Write to: pagingdrgrumpy [at] gmail [dot] com
Note: I do not answer medical questions. If you are having a medical issue, see your own doctor. For all you know I'm really a Mongolian yak herder and have no medical training at all except in issues regarding the care and feeding of Mongolian yaks.
