You have a lot of choices about who you see for you medical needs, and – of course – when it comes to your health, you want the very best. And that’s me. Yes, I realize the “in the box” thinkers will tell you that you should see someone who’s been to “medical school” and is an “M.D.” and isn’t “totally creeped out” at the concept of doing surgery, but choosing me as your primary care physician is a decision you’ll cherish for the rest of your life.
But don’t just take my word for it. Check out my qualifications – most of which come from watching TV (can your current doctor make that claim?) – and decide for yourself why you should please hire me to be your doctor.
To me, you’re not just a number. You’re not just a an ailment. You’re a person. A person with an ailment who will be given an ID number.
I’ve taken a CPR/First Aid class, like 4 times. Those videos where the people burn themselves, or faint, or whatever? Got ‘em memorized at this point. If I see you about to unload a heavy crate, and everyone’s dressed about 16 years out of date, and everything looks cheaply shot, and no one’s dialogue sounds convincing? I’ll know something’s up and get ready.
I understand from TV that I will need to use the shock-paddles constantly. Whether it’s a light cold or a gunshot to the chest – grab the paddles and start blasting. It cures everything, including being attacked with shock paddles.
The Chinese have an old story about a good doctor who can cure disease and is famous throughout the land, a better doctor who can stop disease before it gets serious and is known in his town, and the best doctor who can stop disease before it starts and is known by very few people at all. No one thinks I’m a good doctor. Think about it.
My waiting room will have a water slide.
I look quite a bit like Patrick Dempsey, who plays Doctor Something on that show I’ve never seen. Always have looked like him. You want to now what I looked like in high school? Watch Can’t Buy Me Love. College? With Honors. Here’s me going to a costume party last Fall.
I will tell you what you have in Latin, so you know how smart I am. ”Doctor,” you’ll say. ”I have a nail in my foot.” ”You very well may have a nail in your foot,” I’ll say condescendingly. Then after a lot of tests I’ll tell you that you have Pede-Calvum, and pull the nail out.
I am tortured by something. I haven’t decided what, but it will make me miserable. It will keep me from maintaining healthy relationships, but it will also by the thing that makes me such a damn good doctor.
We all hate the idea of going to the doctor and them thinking we’re a big wuss. ”It’s a cold, you big baby,” we’re afraid they’ll say. “You’re pathetic.” If you come to me with something dinky, well, I’ll tell you it’s dengue fever or smallpox or something. Then I’ll be like, “My God, how have you withstood the pain? You are a remarkable, heroic person.” Won’t that be nice? Then I’ll tell you there’s just, that morning, been a break-through and I can cure it; and I’ll prescribe you some Nyquil.
Even better: if you should have something serious, I’ll tell you it’s just a cold.
I look forward to hearing from you. You’ll need to make an appointment with my secretary, and I should be able to get you in in about 10 months.