Inside Doug's Head

I am not a number, I am… What's that stuff they make glue out of? I'm that. Forever swirling, forwards and upwards, but always sticky. Sometimes, a little sad.

As a thematic group, I find doctors creepy and perverted. Every time I visit my doctor, she wants to look in my bum. Regardless of the purpose of the visit, she always has to check my bum. I need a prescription refill; she checks my bum. My ear is bothering me; she checks my bum. It’s a little odd. It’s like she read something somewhere on the internet, and now she is under the mistaken belief that there is a lost pirate treasure hidden in there. Gold and doubloons, that sort of shiny stuff. Trust me, there is no treasure. I’ve looked, and if it were ever there, it’s gone now.

Maybe it’s just me, but I find it rather unorthodox that my appointments with her are always in the back of an alley, behind some dumpsters. She says she has a nice office in the swanky part of town, but I have never seen it. I can only get appointments in her alleyway ‘clinic’—it’s also pretty rude that she declines my health insurance and insists on payment in cash up-front.

You know something? Now that I am taking some time to consider the entire situation, I’m starting to think that, in spite of her repeated claims to the contrary, she may not be a real doctor. I first met her when she introduced herself to me as I was out strolling around town. She just marched herself up to my location and said, “Hello. I am your doctor and I need to look in your bum. Oh, and you must pay me money, too.” The pleasantness of her hello was harshly juxtaposed against the specifics of her ask.

Okay, I’ll admit that I wasn’t too keen on the idea of an impromptu rectal examination, and I almost patently refused just on principal, but she said she was a doctor, so I reluctantly agreed to her demands. Whatever it was that she discovered when she was up there, she has been re-checking me weekly ever since. It’s been nearly two years, and to be honest, I am starting to get a little suspicious of her motivations. In hindsight, I probably should have asked to see her credentials before agreeing to the repeated procedures; failing to do so was possibly a mistake on my part.

Well, whether she’s a doctor or not, I have decided that the next time I go down that alley for my weekly inspection, I am going to spread a large amount of peanut butter in the area to be examined (vis-à-vis my butt crack) beforehand. Like, a lot of peanut butter. Possibly, chunky, but definitely a lot.

When the ‘doctor’ goes in for a closer look, she will think that maybe I pooed myself. Except, it will smell like peanut butter, and she will become very confused by the sight vs. smell conundrum. In theory, the experience will ruin two things for her, and she’ll finally stop insisting that I return for a follow-up. There is probably an easier way to get out of these appointments, but for the life of me, I can’t think of one. Note to self: buy peanut butter.

—DG.

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