Author note: If you're wondering "is this a duplicate post?" It is indeed. I'm setting up my "steempress" plugin on a new Wordpress site, and am re-posting my Steemit posts back to my blog. And there's a little setting I forgot to click. So I re-posted it. (And... there may be a few more, as I queued and sent several before realizing my error.) But yay. It's working! And maybe you missed this post the first time around, hmm?
It’s so very flattering when my charming comedic friends nominate me to write a Comedy Open Mic post. (Thank you, @diebitch!) But they fail to remember that I’m sadly lacking a "funny bone."
Yes, there's a story behind that. But I’m sure you don’t want to hear about it.
Okay fine. I’ll tell you. It all started with a simple doctor’s visit. You know, the type that begins in a totally routine way with weight, blood pressure, various weird probes and an IQ test, and ends with a horrible diagnosis? This was one of those.
Doctor Takeblood had nurses running back and forth with trays, needles and equipment. As the appointment wore on, an audience of interns assembled and more tests were ordered, such as a Rorschach test, an oil check and a PSAT. While this was going on, I caught the doctor muttering things under her breath each time test results came back. After the IQ test, for example, I could have sworn I heard her say "epic fail."
It occurred to me that I was the patient, which is essentially a customer by another name, and I deserved to know what was going on. I said to the doc, “What’s that for?”
She glanced at the probe in her hand then turned back to me with a menacing look, daring me to probe further about the probe. “No one knows. It’s merely protocol.”
“Well, okay, if it’s ports-o-call.”
“Protocol.”
“Portugal. Fine. Whatever. What does it detect?”
She smiled at me in that way that says very distinctly, “I’m God… I mean... the doctor, and that is for me to know and for you not to know.” She stripped off her gloves and dropped them into the bio-hazard bin, which I admit was slightly concerning. “I’ll just send this off to the lab,” she said, wiggling a vial in the air and smiling. Who smiles at a time like that? Then she stepped out, followed by the herd of interns.
Just as I began wondering why the doc would have done labs unless she suspected something was very wrong, she returned with a grave look on her face. And by that I mean she had a tattoo of a gravestone on her cheek. Had I not noticed it before or was it new? Was this her way of preparing her patients for bad news?
She sat down in the desk chair and leaned toward me. “I’m afraid it’s serious.”
I frowned. “Serious as in ‘life threatening’ or serious as in ‘not funny’?”
“Both.”
“Crap. What’s wrong with me?”
She blinked rapidly and looked out the window. For someone who looked like one of the Stepford Wives and had the bedside manner of a shark, she appeared to have actual feelings. Either that or she was a fairly decent actress. She bit her lip and then spoke. “It’s… your funny bone.”
“Oh my God! Not my…! Wait, what? That’s a thing?”
“For most people, yes.”
“You lost me. Have I got a funny bone or not?” I scratched my head, because that is the appropriate gesture to indicate you are confused when you are a character in a very bad drama.
“You do, but it’s extremely frail and brittle. It could snap at any moment.”
“At least you found it.” I am nothing if not an optimist.
“Yes, we found it after much probing… but….”
“What about my butt?”
“No dear, your funny bone. Or, as we like to say back in the office when patients are not around to hear us, your….”
“Don’t say it! Just tell me what’s wrong.”
She glanced at a clipboard. “Well, for starters, there is some serious atrophy.”
I brightened up. “That doesn’t sound so bad! I almost feel like I won something. Not everyone gets a trophy.”
Dr. Takeblood breathed deeply as if summoning patience. "The funny bone atrophy seems to be paired with some fairly severe intelligence impairment."
"Stop your double-speak, Doc! You're just using big words to dance around the truth. I know how you operate!"
"I'm actually not a surgeon."
"Sturgeon... cod... it doesn't matter. Just give me the facts. Is it infectious?"
“Humor is infectious. What you have is pretty much the opposite. In fact, if you try to be funny, it’s going to go over like a lead balloon.”
That seemed rather rude and uncalled for, but I did suddenly remember the last time I told an actual joke. Several people attending the party had to be resuscitated.
I tried to determine whether this was all bending in my favor. “Well… is there any treatment? A splint or a stent or a stunt, or something? Perhaps a wheelchair with a lot of bells and whistles?”
One eyebrow shot up. She saw right through me (even though she hadn't done any X-rays); I was all about the cool medical accoutrements. She gave me a solemn look. “We do have some literary devices, but they are rarely effective in these cases.”
The doc looked at her watch.
I was taking up her time and she had to be on her rounds, or quadrangles, or whatever doctors do. But I had so many more questions. “Just one more thing.”
She stood and washed her hands. Evidently she thought it was infectious. “What.”
“You suggested that this condition could be… life threatening.”
“Yes, but not for you. Only for those you try to amuse.”
“Oh no, really? Is there anything I can do?”
She shook her head, rather sadly. But then, evidently thinking better of it, she said, “You could try deadpan humor.”
“Bedpan humor?”
“Deadpan.”
“I’m supposed to avoid killing people with my ill humor by using dead pans?”
“Just don’t try to be humorous. Seriously.”
“I think you’re being ironic.”
Dr. Takeblood headed for the door. Then she turned back and gave me one last look. “You’re a fiction writer, aren’t you?”
Having just witnessed first hand what can befall would-be humorists, I clamped my mouth shut, fearful that there would be more diagnostic procedures and the revealing of more horrible maladies. “Perhaps?” I squeaked.
“I suggest you stick to what you know. That means don't write comedy, don't act in comedies, don't tell jokes, or try to be someone funny like a stand-up comedienne. Not if you care about those you love. Just focus on fiction and no one will get hurt.”
“Can't I at least try to infuse some humor into my fiction writing?”
At that, Dr. Takeblood began laughing maniacally. “Good one.”
"I suppose that's what you call bedpan humor?”
"Sure," she said. "Call it what you like." Then she gave me a participation sticker. As she left the room, she said “Write two short stories and call me in the morning.”
Posted from my blog with SteemPress : https://jaynalocke.com/2018/07/01/doctor-doctor-give-me-the-news/