I wish I could fire my stomach doctor like Donald Trump does rejects on The Apprentice. “You’re fired,” I’d yell, my hair combed over in a giant wave of spun gold, imperious to all but the fiercest of hurricane winds. “You’re fired for not practicing medicine the way I want you to. When I ask for the good stuff, I want the same medicine celebrities get with fake ID’s and by using five or six different doctors. That’s right. I want the stuff that makes my troubles fall away and the paparazzi feel like a minor annoyance, a piece of yellow tail stuck between my gapped front teeth.”
Unfortunately, I’ve reached the point where my stomach doctor sees the world his way and not mine. Time to toss him. Time to move on. Not to the point that I’d visit him in his office and say exactly what I think, which would go something like this: “how hard would it be for you to order a **&@$& H. pylori test? I’m the one who has to do all the work one morning collecting the sample – the one I eventually have to drive over to the lab where the tech behind the counter will open the bag and gag, then walk it with outstretched hands to the poor tech in back who drew the short straw of work assignments that day. Yes, people in the waiting area, I’m the only one not here for a blood test. And I’ll leave in shame as everyone stares at me like I just delivered a strain of bacteria only found on a planet in our solar system that will go unnamed.”
“You, crappy doctor, only have to lift the pen, and fill in a circle on a lab test like you did your questionable MCAT, as there were rumors you paid the smart kid in your class to take it. That’s all you have to do, then tell your nurse to give me the paraphernalia I need to make this act happen the next day. But no. You can’t do it as you don’t see the need. Well, good sir, I’ve had it with you. I’m not asking for a 10K test here. Or, is it because I might be correct? That might make you feel bad or inferior, as I only have a medical degree from the College of the Internet signed by a man in a country that used to be part of the USSR. I feel it reflects my skills in self diagnosis quite well. Yes I do. Jealousy on your part, no doubt, because I made a correct call.”
Then I’d fire him. And when he started looking at me like “big deal, crazy hypochondriac,” I’d throw him out the window to watch him land on his new Porsche. Perhaps, the soft-top would have been a better choice after all, Doc, I’d yell.
Now if only the Donald threw contestants out of the window after he fired them. That’s a show I’d watch, but only if the Donald fired himself first.