I returned to Dr. Stickem today, for some reason. He was grasping at straws this time, because I'm still sick. "Are you cold?", he asked. "No", I replied. As he prepped my PALM for insertion, he said "Ok, you're cold, so this will make you hot, but it will hurt..." - Y'think? It hurt. After he fired the needles into me, the doc was too good to touch them again, so he sent in the smiling She-witch to pluck them out.
Then, he brought me into the alien autopsy room for more advanced silliness. The room looked like a restaurant, complete with the adjustable smoke-eating vents commonly seen in BBQ joints. He strapped a wooden cup filled with burning coal and hocus pocus grass onto my lower stomach, and left me there for 30 minutes of solitary head-shaking and eyebrow-raising. I'm guessing the smoke was supposed to have been sucking bad hoo-doo out of my gut, like the spectral smoke produced when the Stonecutters burned Homer's underwear.
As I walked out, still coughing like a dog on fire, I swear the She-witch was about to mouth the words 'I'm sorry'. Bring on the 'real' doctor with his trail mix bag of pills, because I'm done with all the snake-oil liniments - any medical treatment that leaves you with stigmata and a scorched treasure trail is not cool.
Well, I'm gonna go listen to my second favorite Ramones song now, 'Needles and Pins'. Number one is of course 'The KKK took my baby away'.
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