So is that the good cholesterol or the bad cholesterol ?

I went to see Doctor Fireman yesterday to go over the results of a blood test I took last week, and the good doctor had some good news for me.

“Well your bad cholesterol is very low, and your good cholesterol is very high,” says Doctor Fireman.  “And your molesterol is non-existent.”

“My what?” I say.

“Your molesterol,” says Doctor Fireman.  “Science has discovered that sex offenders tend to have high amounts of a unique plaque in their arteries that no one else but sex offenders have.  And it’s called molesterol.”

“So you can tell if someone will be a child molester just from a blood test?” I say.

“More or less, yeah,” says Doctor Fireman.  “Or high amounts of molesterol could just mean that you’re Italian.  That explains why old Italian men are such grab-asses.”

“Well, I’m half-Italian, what should I do make sure my molesterol stays down?” I ask.  “Eat more fish?  Cut down on sodium?”

“Just stay off the limoncello and you shouldn’t get a molesterol flare-up,” says Doctor Fireman.  “Now let’s check your colon for spiders.”

This sort of candor and straight-talk is why I go to Doctor Fireman for my medical needs.

humor-blogs.com – fuelmyblog.com – alltop-humor – cre8buzz – blogcatalog

The Young and the Restless Leg Syndrome

So I’m watching that Hamas kids show again, and it looks like they replaced Palestinian Mickey Mouse with a giant flying bee.  I’m disappointed, as the bee doesn’t speak Spanish or do any physical comedy like the giant bee guy on The Simpsons does.  Why couldn’t terrorist Goofy take over the show?

Anyway, the show ends and the commercials come on and there’s an ad about Restless Leg Syndrome.  I don’t really buy that it’s a real ailment, but I do recognize some of those symptoms in my life.   Time for a visit to my general practicioner Doctor Fireman.

“So what makes you think you have Restless Leg Syndrome?” says the good doctor.

“Well, I don’t think it’s necessarily Restless Leg Syndrome,” I say.  “I think it’s more like Restless Crotch Syndrome.”

“There’s no such thing as RCS,” says Doctor Fireman.

“Then why am I constantly humping my furniture?” I ask.

“Because you’ve got bigger problems than I think I can treat,” says Doctor Fireman.

“The recliner likes it when I spank it,” I say.  “All my furniture is from IKEA, ’cause I like ‘em when they’re Scandinavian.”

“Maybe I can give you something to lessen your testosterone levels,” says Doctor Fireman.

“No, I need my testosterone,” I say.  “My muscles and bones will lose their strength without it.  And I need my muscles and bones at full working capacity for my workouts at that new unhealthy low self-esteem gym I belong to, ‘Am I Pretty Yet?’”

“Well… looks like we’ve found something I can treat to try and cure you of this so-called Restless Crotch Syndrome,” says Doctor Fireman.

So I walk out of Doctor Fireman’s office with an excessive amount of anxiety and depression pills, and some sort of nasal spray that helps get rid of shyness.  Either this is all for allievating my numerous social problems that prevent me from successfully dating women, or the good doctor is trying to make me feel better about humping my own furniture.  Just as long as I don’t get Restless Colon Syndrome…

The South Will Rise Again… but for 30 days only.

“Hey, I’ve been feeling weird since the beginning of April,” I say to Doctor Fireman.

“Allergies?” says Doctor Fireman.

“No, not that,” I say.  “I’ve got these weird urges to do things I never even considered doing, because they’re really wrong.”

“Like what?”  asks Doctor Fireman, writing on his chart.

“I suddenly have the urge to secede from America and keep blacks as slaves on a cotton plantation,” I say.  “Do I have the schizophrenia?  Is one of my split personalities from Georgia?”

“No, it’s nothing serious,” says Doctor Fireman.  “It’s just Confederate Heritage Month all April.  Looks like you caught a slight case of Johnny Reb.  Been around any southerners recently?”

“No, but I got stuck watching a Dukes of Hazzard marathon last weekend after I took a muscle relaxer and couldn’t reach the remote control,” I say.  “Plus Newt Gingrich has been on TV a lot recently.”

“That’ll do it,” says Doctor Fireman.  “I’m going to perscribe you some Unionall – that will take care of the feelings of secession.  And for the slavery, here’s the miniseries Roots.  If it doesn’t clear up by May 1st or if you start wearing the stars and bars in any form, come on back and we’ll perform an emergency Appomattoxamy right here in the office.”

“Can I continue to wear my Boss Hogg white suit?” I ask.

“No, you’ll have to leave that here with me,” says Doctor Fireman.

Well, this won’t be the first time I’ve walked into the local pharmacy in just my Y-fronts.

It’s like Kafka… except in your pants

I had a a strange dream recently.

I was doing a self-exam when I felt something on my ballsack.

Oh no! It’s the cancer!

So I go to Doctor Fireman to get it checked out.

“It’s not a tumor,” says Doctor Fireman. “It’s a nipple.”

*blink* *blink*

“You’ve got a breasticle,” says Doctor Fireman. “You’ve developed a combination breast and testicle.”

“Is it contagious?” I say.

“No, but it exponentially increases your risk of breasticular cancer,” says Doctor Fireman. “Here, have this pink and orchid ribbon.”

“Can I…uh, like, feed babies with it?” I ask. “I mean, it is a breast after all.”

At this point in the dream Doctor Fireman pulls out a ferret from his coat, and shoots me in the face with it. Then I wake up in a panic, and I rip off my clothes to see if my balls have any nipples on them. And when I see that my nutsack is nipple-free, I start laughing.

The rest of the people on the bus, however, don’t find it very funny.

It’s like Tony Robbins…but sadder

It’s Spring check-up time, so I go in to see Doctor Fireman.

“You’re in perfect health,” Doctor Fireman says.

I am disappointed. I was hoping for some sort of terminal disease, and I’ll tell you why.

It is scientifically-proven through anecdotal evidence that if you give a person a task and an amount of time to do it, they will take the entire time allotted to do said task. Like when you were given two weeks to do a book report in school, more than likely you finished the book report on that 14th day (unless you were me, who stopped reading after the 7th grade because reading is fundamental, and fundamentals lead to fundamentalism, and fundamentalism is what causes people to fly planes into buildings, or kill Jews, or set gays on fire, and I’ll have no part in supporting that circle of hatred, thank you).

So if I had some sort of cancer which only gave me nine months to live, I would then look at the remaining tasks left in my life and say “Hey, you’ve got nine months to finish all this. Hop to it.” And hopefully by the time those nine months were over I’d have finished all that shit I’ve been putting off for years. If not, oh no you failed and you’re dead and don’t have to worry about all that stuff anymore.

I should write one of those self-help books about this…call it “You’re On the Clock: Now Get To Work! Time-Management Skills for the Terminally Ill.” But I’m not dying, so I’m in no hurry to do it.

Ask your doctor

I was in Doctor Fireman’s office the other day, and I told him that I wanted to ride a bicycle.

“Okay, so do you need a physical or something?” asked Doctor Fireman.

“No, I need those pills I saw on TV,” I say. “There’s a commercial where people laughing, and gardening, and riding bikes. I want the pills that let you do that, but I forget what they’re called. Something with three syllables that don’t go together so well.”

“I don’t think those pills are for bicycling,” says Doctor Fireman. “Those types of pills are usually for heartburn or cholestrol or herpes.”

“Hmm…and I have none of those,” I say. “So where do I get the biking pills?”

“There are no biking pills,” Doctor Fireman says. “I’ve got Viagra though.”

“No, I’m aroused too many hours in the day as it is,” I say. “What about those hair-loss pills? Got any of those?”

“But your hair isn’t thinning,” says Doctor Fireman.

“I want richer, thicker hair,” I say. “Hair so rich and thick that it becomes a weapon, and it develops it own intelligence and we can share a symbiotic relationship. I want to kill someone with my living hair.”

I left the office with a couple free bottles of anti-psychotic medicine, which is really all I wanted. You have to work hard to keep your brain chemistry balanced when you’re on a budget.

Passion Fruit of the Christ

“Yes, I’d like to make an appointment,” I say into the phone. I’m calling my general practicioner, Doctor Fireman. A hour later I’m sitting in the examination room waiting for the good doctor with dishrags wrapped around my hands, which made driving to the doctor’s very challenging.

“So what seems to be the problem?” says Doctor Fireman, entering the examination room with his clipboard and toolbelt.

“I seem to be leaking orange juice from my palms,” I reply, unwrapping my hands to show the Vitamin C-rich juice dripping from the middle of my hands.

Doctor Fireman scribbles on his clipboard. “Okay…and how long has this been going on?”

“Since last night,” I say. “I thought a good night’s sleep would clear it up but it didn’t.”