nothing left but the angry dwarf
I went to see a real live doctor yesterday. I didn't see his degree, but he had on a nice necktie and seemed relatively well groomed. He couldn't have been much older than me, but he used big words with confidence, and that, coupled with the fistful of free pills he left me with, was enough to earn my trust.
He is my new doctor. I feel bad for abruptly leaving my old doctor like this, but my old doctor sucked. I only saw him once, and he seemed to dismiss me long before I was able to get into the bit about the microchip implant or my uncanny ability to always know what Tucker Carlson is thinking at any given moment.
It is still the theme song to "Matlock". The man is nothing if not consistent.
The fistful of free pills is doing a helluva job of dispatching the chest congestion and opening the sinuses for oxygen, but there is still a great deal of sinus pressure that has somehow spread through my entire cranium. I am still quite dizzy, and it feels not unlike a constant state of walking around with Herve Villachaize on your head. He kneads his tiny palms into my forehead and thrusts the brow downward, then presses at the temples and squeezes the bass of my skull with his gamey thighs. He laughs at first, but Herve is angry and looking for a fight, and there is no Ricardo Montalban there to tame him.
I didn't mention that bit to the doctor, but I see now that it might have helped me get that prescription for Guinness.