Thank you sir, may I have another.

I was overdue, I admit. I realized back in late November that if I didn't get on it soon, I wouldn't be able to make it in by the end of January. And now here it was, mid February, and I had without question, failed to comply with my own self-imposed regimen of yearly "check-ups" with my chosen physician. Regimen to the extent that I had, over the past decade, at least tried to get in to the doctor's office once a year for a check under the hood, whether I need it or not. Recognizing this would be a habit that could easily be missed for a few years without due diligence, I made a mental note to drop in during birthday season--late January. A fairly easy mental Post-It note, if you will, that should be easy to keep track of. Now the importance of these annual visits were reinforced doubly by 1) the content of my daily work and my appreciation of their intrinsic preventative value, and 2) my awareness of my own mortality and the limited amount of time I may have on this festering globe to exercise the fullest extent of my Hubris and Hate.

(OK, a bit overboard with the shameless plug...)

My point is, I try to be a conscientious and diligent patient. And I suppose that given the fact that I had successfully quit smoking cigarettes after 20 years at my current physician's urging almost 14 months ago, it's safe to say that I was feeling a bit cocky. But the reality is, I'm a human male. And we never like to admit that we may be weak or infirm. And in order to avoid any unnecessary potential confusion regarding our virility, we tend to avoid doctorrs of any sort, like the plague. (Can I get a rim-shot, here?)

Now I like my doc; he's a capable, intelligent and professional clinician who performs his job with just the right blend of casual affability and dispassionate efficiency that I find comforting. When I'm talking about my health, I want someone who can give the me shit-- straight up without dancing around "delicate" issues, but with some decent customer service skills thrown in for good measure.

So I was particularly pleased this morning when I underwent my yearly (give or take) physical. Upon arrival, I was quickly ushered in from the front waiting room to the first exam room, and within fairly short order, put through all the paces: height and weight recorded; bone density, EKG, lung capacity and blood pressure all measured, then the obligatory blood draw and urine sample, all done in relatively smooth, conveyor-like fashion. While being run through the various stations, I had pleasant tete-a-tetes with the medical assistant who was completing her externship and on her way out to Kansas (for fuck's sake!!) while her fiance' finishes radiology school as well as the phlebotomist responsible for the collection of bodily fluids who was clearly not ready for someone as talkative and bantering as myself on a Monday morning. Perhaps she was out late singing Karaoke at Vito's with Claudio the night before.

So finally, after I've been appropriately poked, prodded and drained, I'm moved into the last exam room where I'll finally get to meet my preferred witch doctor for our annual chat about my slow, irreversible decline into worm food. Now I like this guy, really. I am a professional, and I realize that he is extremely busy, seeing who knows how many patients in various states of deterioration and trauma every day, so I really try to be considerate patient and keep my shit brief and to the point. And I get the impression he appreciates this because of the casual, almost fraternal manner in which we interact during the history and physical exam. It's a job: he's the doctor, and I'm the patient.

And so we go through the standard stuff: any problems with headaches, vision disturbances, dry skin, frequent urination, constipation, diarrhea, swollen glands, numbness or tingling in the extremities, changes in family history, sudden appearance of alien heads sprouting from the back of my skull,.... you get the picture. Then we do the ol' once over, where he visually inspects, and palpates if appropriate, every region, joint and appendage of my body. But since he's a professional, and I'm a patient, it's all kosher. (It helps that he's Jewish, by the way.) And eventually, he makes the never-spoken-of, but clearly-understood transition into the "hernia check." Again, very professional. He's the doctor <"cough">, and I'm the <"Cough"> patient. So it's all cool. But then comes:

-Well, you're 35 this year, and that's when I start doing the prostate exam.

-Yeah, I figured as much.

And this is where my doc gets serious points on the "bedside manner" scale:

Well, I'm sorry about this but I'm going to have to do a rectal. The good news is, I have small hands.

We share a good chuckle while he pulls on the surgical gloves, thankfully applying copious amounts of "surgical lubricant" before instructing me to turn around and grab the exam table. He tosses a box of Kleenex onto the exam table by my face and then began a quick lecture on the anatomy of the prostate, presumably to distract me mentally from the anal incursion which happened with the speed and precision of a bunker buster in the First Gulf War (remember that one, kids!?):

Do you know about the prostate (yeah, sorry about that). Well, it's an almond sized organ that is (push) normal,(poke) normal and (cuurrrl)normal.

And we're done. (And suddenly I don't have to piss quite so badly)

And so, because he's a professional, and I'm a patient, I stand back up, collect myself, and without thinking I grab a handful of Kleenex, hike my left leg up on the exam table and commence to wiping my ass clean of the slimey goo coating my nether region while confirming with Dr. Finger that I should schedule my follow up with the front desk.

In no time at all, he's stripped off the latex gloves sodden with my waste and petroleum jelly, tossed them in the garbage like some much dead skin sluffed off a snake in springtime and exited the room without another word. It was then, standing in the cool, sterile room with my surgical robe wadded up like a prom dress and tossed on the crinkled butcher's paper covering the pleather padding of the exam table, my leg cocked up leg a dog spraying a fire hydrant while I wiped my ass clean of K-Y Jelly, that I realized two things:

1) I think I finally knew what it felt like to be Catholic, and

2) I couldn't wait to call my good friend, the queer one who's had a crush on me since the first time we meet 9 years ago, and inform him that I've decided to start playing for the "other team."

...

...

...


Oh shit, what am I going to tell FC???

Rant #2

If you're a resturant and you serve food and beverages to citizens who pay some of their hard earned money to consume said food and beverages, please do me a favor: Be sure to insist on serving food the proper temperature and beverages in a timely fashion, especially if the citizens are dining gratis due to the fact that on their previous visit, their food was not served at the requisite temperature, and their drinks did not arrive in a timely fashion. Because if you fail to serve hot food, hot, and cold food, cold, all while failing to procure drinks in a timely manner twice, in sucession, I can guaran-fucking-tee you that these citizens will NOT return to your establishment, or any other of the vast chain of locations EVER AGAIN!!!!!

How can anybody drop the fucking ball in such an egregious manner?

Three Rants (abridged)

OK, as I am sure you are all aware, I love the sound of my own voice. Therefore, I talk. A lot. Usually about nothing that interests you whatsoever. But being a good little monkey, you listen attentively, nod and make verbal affirmations in the appropriate places and generally put up with my endless diatribe of bullshit and blather.

And I thank you for that. Really, I do. I know enough that constantly talking about myself would bore the absolute fuck out of you, so I do try to keep that down to a barely tolerable level, but as far as the rest of my mind-numbing ramblings go... well let's just say I believe you have the patience of a saint. You smell like 3 day old fecal matter, but your saintliness is guaranteed based solely on your willingness to subject yourself to my excessive verbosity, or in this case, test-osity.

Which brings me to my point. My love of my own aural tones and ceaseless amusement with my personal mental meanderings tend to get in the way of any real productive work. Or in this case, timely entries to this little writing "exercise" of mine.

Exercise in mental masturbation, is more the case. But whatever... it makes me feel good, and that's good enough for me.

So, for the (however brief) time being, I pledge to get right to the heart of the matter and quit fucking around with the extraneous linguistic foreplay. So with that, I give you:

THREE RANTS

Dear New Guy:

When we hired you late last year to replace me here at the Ranch, we were looking for a top-notch employee who we (the Ranch, that is) could invest in heavily for the long term. We went through an exhaustive search, interviewed many applicants, asked and answered hundreds of questions, provided a thorough job description, clearly outlined our expectations of our ideal candidate, explained the benefits package and finally settled on you. When our decision had been made by committee (never an easy proposition in an operation like the Ranch), we extended our offer of employment with a very generous compensation package.* You did the obligatory dickering and took the appropriate time in responding to demonstrate you weren't too eager to come across the street.** But you finally accepted and began working for us just over 6 weeks ago.

So I hope you'll understand when I tell you that I more than just a little disappointed in your "performance" to date. See, we thought we had a knowledgable, skilled and motivated worker on our hands when we took you on. You indicated quite clearly that you were a high performer, with over ten years in the business, essentially doing exactly what you were hired for.

After you came aboard, I was tasked with your training and assimilation into the fold here at the Ranch. And I was very up front with you that I took this duty very seriously, as you represented my legacy here when I left later this year for Seminary. I conveyed to you clearly how important this was to me, and I was going to make it my highest priority to get you up to speed with the work practices and overall guiding philosophy here at the Ranch as soon as possible so you could start executing like the high-performer you presented yourself to be.

So why is it that within your first three days, I have to literally hunt you down for meeting with the Patriarch?!?! You're a friggin' adult, why do I suddenly have to babysit your ass? Oh right, because you had to take your ass out to the Golden Arches for mid-morning/afternoon snack. Or you were taking care of personal business on the Ranch's time!!

Now you may get away with that kind of shit in a year or two, but you have to earn those priviledges, motherfucker! Trust me, as long as I am around, your shit does NOT stink, and you will always be the low man on the totem pole.

Oh, and for someone who's got so much experience under your belt, why does it take you so fucking long to rope a calf, or even brand a cow? This is basic stuff, partner!! Oh, you had plebes to delegate the real work to at your last ranch?? Well I got news for you, we run a lean and efficient machine here. And when it comes down to bonus time, you'll understand why. But in the meantime, you'd best buckle the fuck down and learn how to work smart AND hard, until you've got the basics under control. Because right now, you clearly don't have a fucking clue on how to even ride a goddamn horse!

So please, do us all a favor: Quit disappearing without notifying the proper authorities, learn how to pull your own (rather abundant) wieght and quit making me look bad in my few remaining months here at the BEST JOB I'VE EVER HAD.



*For the record, our offer was more generous than the offer I ultimately negotiated for myself four years ago. You are welcome for profiting on my hard work.

** Yep, we recruited this clown from a high-volume ranch no more than two blocks away, a mere two weeks after recruiting another employee from the same competitor. How do you them apples, Asshat!


(stay tuned for Rants #2 and #3.)