“Without the inclination towards philanthropia, man is a busy, mischievous, wretched thing; no better than a kind of vermin, Maroon.”
“Well quite, but I did give at the office.”
“You gave at the office did you?”
“Yes.”
“To The West of Scotland Red Crescent?”
“Yesss...”
“No matter, roll up your sleeve. Still smoking?”
Today, Dr Al-Abri, company medic, is being a royal pain in the ass with his raffle tickets and charity tins. His manner is a disgrace. When you go in, he is always reading a newspaper or eating a Kit Kat. He just riles me. For some reason he is wearing a brown leather protector over his middle finger and he keeps touching me with the fucking thing, so, to take my mind off it while he straps me up, I read the little acronyms he writes across the cover of my file. The latest is HIBGIA; no, not a wasting of the liver, but “Had It Before, Got It Again”.
“Hypertension: it's the silent killer, Maroon.”
And, sure as Death, the examination rumbles on to The Display And Consideration Of The Maroon Private Parts and I follow like a lamb, knowing he’s going to have his hairy fingers pressing up on my sweaty groin while I look down into his liquid brown eyes. Thankfully, there is nothing like a biennial finger to fetch out the racist homophobe.
“Did you bring a sample?”
I take it out my pocket and because I have just done it in the disabled toilet, it is still hot. He holds it up to the window, quite fascinated; then he turns it over like an egg timer, spellbound,
“Is this what I think it is?”
“What do you mean?”
“It looks fine, but I was expecting pee not semen.”
“No way! Your letter is all about a “Well Man” examination. There is a whole paragraph on prostate and testicular cancer, and em, fertility, erectile problems, discoloured ejaculate, and then, then it asks for a sample in the Sterilin bottle provided. This is your bloody fault, not mine.”
I am scanning the letter as I blurt all this out and for the first time in 10 readings I see the word urine.
“How did you get it in the bottle?”
“Get lost Ali, I ain't in the mood.”
“Cough.”
*ahem*
“And again.”
*cough*
“Fine.”
And then he snarks away to himself for a full minute.
36 comments:
“How did you get it in the bottle?”
spat it out...?
oh.my.gawd.
xoxo
I'm still convinced that the delectable Mrs Pouncer, and the irascible Maroon are one and the same.
Jolly good wheeze again sir / madam.
Jimmy you have just made my day and ruined hers.
Sav, you couldn't make it up. xooxx
Cheers Kim, very charitable. I shall phone this evening between 6 and 7.
Make it after 6.30 then as I'll have finished my tea
Jimmy, you aunt! You only think I'm Maroon because he's upped his game under my tutelage. Last summer I was mistaken for Gyppo, Boyo and Bill Chapman of the Esperantist Society. Why doesn't anyone ever take me for Anna Bingemann or Vanessa Creedy Smith?
I rest my case!
I've just realised that at my trip to the doc's nobody asked for my specimen. Maybe I should keep it for next time. Seems a waste else.
must i look up "aunt" now, too? *sigh* xoxox
*sigh* nevermind
Well there's no shame in being shown up as a wanker to a medic, I mean they probably invented it. You must have got it into the bottle by the clever use of a fountain pen, what with you being an engineer and such.
It's predictive text, Sav. As is coal and dial. And The Girl from Ipanema is the Girl from Grandma. I thought Maroon was being uber offensive when I got that one.
Is predictive text for what, Scarl?
Scarls has a point Clarissa. Top end semen like that, is worth a fortune in the United States (so long as I withhold my photograph).
Scarlet my lovely, never mind the baster, here, have a wild turkey on the rocks, straight up.
God bless yer, a real lady.
Ax
You're a fine one to talk Mr Gorilla Bananas, as a visit to any ape house (no offence) in any British zoo will show. They invented the art of bored auto-erotic self abuse. Still, you have touched a nerve. I have just been asked what I do and I answered engineer when I should have answered poet. I am so bloody craven.
Semen is too viscous for fountain pens G.B. I am an engineer. I will be heard.
Pat my darling discard it forthwith! It will only leak and become a noisome puzzle in your handbag like a haddock mischievously slipped behind the radiator in an old folk's home.
It's chimps who are the wankers, Maroon, not gorillas. Remember Dr Seager and his probe? Jamming it into the poor defenceless fundaments of the Jersey Zoo gorillas to achieve orgasm. Goodness, it was a fearful sight, but needs must. The gorillas were far too dignified. The chimps sat around tossing themselves off in full view of Mrs Gerald Durrell.
I'm sure she'd seen it all before Clarissa, or am I thinking of Desmond Morris?
"Sweaty groin..." Try to see these things from the other chap's viewpoint (man muss immer umkehren); it was no fun for him until the sperm business.
LOL @ Kim.
very amusing Maroon, you've made my day. how you kept from spasming - the world will never know. unless you've posted it somewhere on YOUtube.
Sarah, LOL @ Kim? Really? I found an unguarded bitterness in his remarks. Yes, a bitter, uncharitable display as his "Family Man" persona slipped for a second to reveal the grotesque corruption that is Kim Ayres. Still, glad i made your day.
Inky, not a bit of it. I am totally thraped wi' seein' the other view. Mt view is equally valid. In fact;
MY clever-dick motto would be;
<"One Must Find An Angle"
See what I did there? Turned it round to my advantage and kept the geometry theme. Result!
How could you, Doc; how could you?
How could I what: Eryl? Get it in the bottle? My aim is true. Really, for someone claiming an M.Lit. of your own, your ambiguity is staggering.
a funnel! that's what y'all used, sugar! ;~D xoxox
@mrs. pouncer...merci, madame
The latest is HIBGIA; no, not a wasting of the liver, but “Had It Before, Got It Again”.
When I were a nipper in casualty we used to use FUBARBUNDY - Fucked Up Beyond All Repair But Unfortunately Not Dead Yet - or the pithier NFG - Normal For Glasgow.
Maroon: i think that is exactly WHY Kim recieved the LOL or it may have been the cruelty aimed at you. which do you think?
No Sav, not a funnel nor a tunnel neither. In the words of the incomparable Bette Midler; "Who is this? Needle Dick the bug fucker?" xoxxoxo
Well aren't you a one; Foot Eater? How très drôle of you and your so-called clinician friends to mock the afflicted, biting the arthritic hands that feed you and keep you in A4 Audis and holidays in the Grenadines. But enough, where are my manners? How the devil are you? Family life suits? Yes of course it does. Guid. Here, have this whisky and soda on account. Absent friends!
What is the matter with everyone Sarah? Is it sunspots or something? Why is it suddenly “I Hate Maroon” week round here? Never mind, look drink this, don’t ask, it’s my own mix: vodka, lemon, lime, OJ, dash of angostura bitters and Rohypnol to taste.
I call it a WMD.
(Where’s my dress?)
Sorry Doc, I've turned into a poet. I was talking about Ikea coffee; are you trying to finish Maggie's husband off?
Eryl, I know. It's just one step up from a Diet Fanta at Debenhams. And who paid, do you think?
Mrs Pouncer, according to Kim it was the Doc, but who knows? The whole episode screams of the squalid.
Not just squalid, Eryl, but also cheeseparing to a T. Maroon has stiffed me for various bills, fares and invoices in the past, but has hit a new low with this kind of Scroogery. He says "conspicuous consumption is very outmoded, Clarissa. Frugal living is the smart man's way. It is a kind of calisthenic for the wallet. My fiscal strategy is more muscular than before; my economic approach is pure Charles Atlas". As usual, he lies.
likely the opposite Maroon.
I had no idea he had treated you – is treating you still – so unjustly, Mrs Pouncer. He really must be shaken out of this. He seems to have jumped on the back of this new trend for frugality as an excuse to keep his money to himself. But I see he is apt offer any Tom, Dick or Harry who drops in, and pleases him with some flattery, a drink so he must be spending furtively. Furtive consumption, like a fried egg sandwich hidden under one's hat, smells far worse than the, lets face it much more honest, conspicuous type.
Have you finished with my Turkey Baster yet? I need to do my hair.
Sx
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