SlapDashittery
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Limping cocksure into a room of individually-stretched uteri is like being the snappiest-dressed guy at a lesbian dance-club, and in finding myself to have been parking the car while the girlfriend was summoned by the ultrasound tech, well, I also found that I was very suddenly at the complete mercy of a group of uncomfortable women none too eager to see me searching for seating amongst them. Comparatively, it’s quite similar to urinating in a men’s washroom: you try to avoid positioning yourself directly next to someone, but should that prove unrealistic, you must steel yourself against the inevitable waves of silent disdain.
Also, if Ms. Magazine beside me was any indication, pregnant woman need an extraordinary amount of elbow room; my arm looks like it was run over by a thresher, and the jostling almost certainly would have gone from bad to worse had the girlfriend not finally remembered that I was waiting to join her while treading water in a sea of estrogen, sending the aforementioned tech to get me just before a couple of the more obviously unstable women attacked me in a frenzy of cramped angst. After my escape, I was treated to a couple of translucent fetal backflips and what looked very much on the monitor like a foot being used as a telephone, which is entirely more jarring to see than it is to describe.
Back to the examination room we went, relishing the fact that our previous consultant, Dr. Whoreface, had taken the day off, presumably to pull the wings off of flies or trip children at the mall or whatever else mongrel thugs do when they’re not jabbing bystanders with a tree-branch and screeching about the end of the world. Instead, we were greeted by a woman wearing a warm smile who answered all of our questions by relating them to children she’d actually delivered, a genuine doctor who pleasantly explained what they were monitoring, how they did so, and what to look for on the graphs they would be charting bi-weekly so we could make determinations for ourselves without being influenced by any alarmist harpies seemingly content to point out only possible harbingers of catastrophe.
Of course, it helped that the girlfriend had managed to raise her famously low amniotic fluid to acceptable levels through sheer force of will alone, hilariously, which resulted in a surprising streak of normalcy that read like the first cut into the crust of a soft apple pie: dead centre, the exact middle, and, somehow, gooey. Also hilarious was this genteel doctor’s assertion that Dr. Bloodteeth would be gone after our next appointment, replaced by an incoming class of chief residents that she deemed "very, very good", a statement that hung in the air like a skywriter’s slowly evaporating trail and underlined by a knowing look that confirmed our suspicions that we weren’t, perhaps, the first to be unduly chastened by this emotionally-destitute, masochistic gremlin.
Either way, when Dr. Shitmouth returns for her extremely-limited engagement, we are now able to all but ignore her while concentrating solely on the hard data laid out in the graphs. However, should the conversation again turn needlessly morbid, I have the girlfriend’s permission to douse Herr Docktor with a bucket of sheep’s blood, staple her to the corkboard outside the main lecture hall, and pay a gaggle of indigent adolescents to throw rotting skunk carcasses at her until she pees her pants and says she’s sorry.
Of course, we differ on what exactly constitutes "needlessly morbid", the girlfriend and I do, but I continue to hoard dead skunks all the same...
Also, if Ms. Magazine beside me was any indication, pregnant woman need an extraordinary amount of elbow room; my arm looks like it was run over by a thresher, and the jostling almost certainly would have gone from bad to worse had the girlfriend not finally remembered that I was waiting to join her while treading water in a sea of estrogen, sending the aforementioned tech to get me just before a couple of the more obviously unstable women attacked me in a frenzy of cramped angst. After my escape, I was treated to a couple of translucent fetal backflips and what looked very much on the monitor like a foot being used as a telephone, which is entirely more jarring to see than it is to describe.
Back to the examination room we went, relishing the fact that our previous consultant, Dr. Whoreface, had taken the day off, presumably to pull the wings off of flies or trip children at the mall or whatever else mongrel thugs do when they’re not jabbing bystanders with a tree-branch and screeching about the end of the world. Instead, we were greeted by a woman wearing a warm smile who answered all of our questions by relating them to children she’d actually delivered, a genuine doctor who pleasantly explained what they were monitoring, how they did so, and what to look for on the graphs they would be charting bi-weekly so we could make determinations for ourselves without being influenced by any alarmist harpies seemingly content to point out only possible harbingers of catastrophe.
Of course, it helped that the girlfriend had managed to raise her famously low amniotic fluid to acceptable levels through sheer force of will alone, hilariously, which resulted in a surprising streak of normalcy that read like the first cut into the crust of a soft apple pie: dead centre, the exact middle, and, somehow, gooey. Also hilarious was this genteel doctor’s assertion that Dr. Bloodteeth would be gone after our next appointment, replaced by an incoming class of chief residents that she deemed "very, very good", a statement that hung in the air like a skywriter’s slowly evaporating trail and underlined by a knowing look that confirmed our suspicions that we weren’t, perhaps, the first to be unduly chastened by this emotionally-destitute, masochistic gremlin.
Either way, when Dr. Shitmouth returns for her extremely-limited engagement, we are now able to all but ignore her while concentrating solely on the hard data laid out in the graphs. However, should the conversation again turn needlessly morbid, I have the girlfriend’s permission to douse Herr Docktor with a bucket of sheep’s blood, staple her to the corkboard outside the main lecture hall, and pay a gaggle of indigent adolescents to throw rotting skunk carcasses at her until she pees her pants and says she’s sorry.
Of course, we differ on what exactly constitutes "needlessly morbid", the girlfriend and I do, but I continue to hoard dead skunks all the same...
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5 Comments:
Awesome! Good fluid level AND a decent, intelligent, helpful and kind doctor. Wonderful news all around.
And, should said skunk carcass event take place with Dr. Whorefaceshitmouth, I would like to be invited to attend with my crow bar.
Doesn't it make a world of difference when you get to speak to a fucking human about these things?
Nice one, well done, and well one yer way.
Good news, buddy.
I hate going along on pregnancy dr visits. Not for the visit itself, which is usually good fun, but for that uncomfortable time in the waiting room. Where to put your eyes? Spend too much time on pregnancy swollen bellies or, good forbid, higher and you look like a perve.
gogogadgetmongogirl: Invitations are being sent forthwith!
Xbox: So far, so good... I can't wait to see Dr. Dipshit on Friday.
Mr. Freeman: My point exactly - the last thing I need is to be accused of lusting after lactating mamas. Yikes.
When did these people forget about bedside manners? Bedside assholes is what they are.
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