Life story
Current mood: horny
Category: Writing and Poetry

Even more about my upcoming autobiography

I still intend to do what I said I would do: preview some of the notes I am making from my autobiography but my Uncle Hercules has been showing remarkable concern about the project. This week he asked me to please meet him at his favorite watering hole, a cafe called The Wanton Goose.

Uncle Hercules was already there when I arrived. He was nurturing a brandy. He said, "Sit down, I have thought of some more problems you are going to have to face if you write this book of your life."

"You mean my autobiography?" I said, sitting across from him and getting the attention of the waiter.

"Of course. Who else's autobiography could you write?"

"No one."

"Good, then shut up and listen. Your father, rest his soul; he is dead, right?"

"Yes."

"Right. Well, your father hated Vikings, did you know that? Of course not, you were too young and your head was too small to wear the Viking helmits that were all the rage back then. I fear that your father, rest his fat cheeks, may have brainwashed you into disliking people with blonde hair or quite the opposite."

"I don't think those are problems, Uncle Hercules," I said, then ordered a brandy from a gorgeous blonde waitress.

"So you see, then, you see that," Uncle Hercules said as the waitress strolled away.

"What?"

"You made sure that the yellow-haired waitress became involved in servitude."

"She took my order."

"Yes, an order; you enjoy giving the blonde ones orders, right? You see? I knew it. When it comes to Scandinavians you thrive on slavery and bondage in a deep part of your being due to your father's hatred of Vikings. Your father would tell you about the unmentionable things the Norsemen would do. He even made some of them up. He scorned those peoples, famous as explorers, warriors, merchants and pirates as they raided and colonized wide areas of Europe until the early 11th century. Your father would heave thinking how the Norsemen used their longships to travel as far east as Constantinople and the Volga River. He never spelled Constantinople correctly without losing his most recent meal. And heavens anyone should hum The Song of the Volga Boatmen."

"Uncle Hercules," I said, "you must be thinking of some other person."

"Didn't I tell you to shut up and listen. Have you no idea that once you begin this book you will unknowingly start writing about how you grew up as far west as Iceland, Greenland and Newfoundland?"

"I don't think that will happen."

"Didn't I tell you to shut up and listen. I am severely and seriously concerned that it is me who has to tell you this but no one else will tell you. Your mother made me swear on her prayer beads that I would never tell you but her last words to me suggested that I should tell you if you began to have designs about writing an autobiography of yourself. She said to me, 'Hercules, I am trusting you will not allow my son to name his son Thor and not understand why the name so appeals to him. Because surely if he names his son Thor, the two of them will never get along. I loved my husband, who happened to be my son's father, and even though I have no intention of visiting the loon in the afterlife, I need to know that my son will learn to love all Scandinavians as he would had not his father brainwashed him.' That is what she said and I heard it and here I am."

The waitress came to our table and smiled as she placed my brandy before me. I smiled back and then I looked at Uncle Hercules, raised my glass and toasted him in silence.

"Then good," he said, "it's settled and you won't write the book. I was hoping you would understand because I was prepared to wander the evening in drag if you didn't."

I sat silently as Uncle Hercules stood up, left the restaurant, got on to his bike and began to peddle feverishly as the true owner of the bike chased him on foot.

7:12 PM - 0 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

Being single
Current mood: breezy
Category: Life

Life after marriage
~part one

I thought it was just me, you know? I thought something unique was happening, something dreadful, for sure, but not common. Certainly going through a divorce is not uncommon but what happened to me afterwards did not meet the mode of normal behavior, not even for me, who is not known for normal behavior anyway.

What was common, of course, after the marriage ended, were the initial reactions: blowing up a photo of the ex-wife and having it sewn to a zeppelin that would cruise over crowded urban and suburban areas; digitalizing all of the photos of the two of us and running them through Photoshop to replace her face with that of Keira Knightley, Megan Fox, Emily Blunt and Kristen Stewart, to name a few; having friends over every Friday night to get drunk while we burned panties on the lawn; and visiting my ex-marriage counsellor daily until the restraining order came through --his restraining order against me.

But amid all those normal reactions I began to experience cold sweats, slurred speach, excessive blinking, dry mouth, dry eyes and a form of night terrors that included waking up and screaming lines from August Strindberg plays. It was the combination of these symptoms that led my doctor to believe I had PMSS, or Post-Marriage Stress Syndrome. It usually strikes, I was told, months after the divorce. In fact, it is usually precluded by a false sense of closure.

I was sent to a PMSS rehabilitation center after I convinced the carriers of my health-insurance plan to fund the stay, using only an old-fashioned switchblade and a ripe cantelope. The same hour I settled into my private room at the center, which was suffering from a small hallway fire at the time, I was placed into a series of therapy sessions with other PMSS victims.

I didn't like the look on any of the faces of the people in the sessions. They all displayed despair and heartbreak, though one of them smiled like Barry Gibb. The moderator at each session was a six-time ex-husband named Walter Seddliment. All of the patients decided to annoy him by calling him Walter Sentiment. That display of hostility ended after the sixth therapy session, when Walter was found hanged in his office with a note pinned to his shirt pocket which read: Emma, you were my favorite but still a mighty pain in the ass who drove me to this and were it not for my patients reminding me of how much I loved you I would still be alive. By the way, check for a pulse after you read this, just in case.

The treatment called for me to stay at the rehab center for three weeks. It was horrible for many reasons. Here are a few. The cafeteria did not allow cell phones because the signals disrupted the toasters at breakfast (for some reason not at lunch or dinner). The tennis matches were always doubles with the men versus the women, invariably leading to deep skin cuts and broken teeth. Mr. Seddliment's replacement, a man in his fifth week of a hunger strike to protest the cruel treatment of underaged parrots, fainted regularly during sessions. Two couples ran away and got married, strangely enough, to members of the center's cleaning crew.

~To be continued

10:18 AM - 4 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

Planet exploration
Current mood: curious
Category: Travel and Places

The importance of knowing Neptune

Certainly we all agree that the successful landing of Phoenix on Mars was dynamic and that the space laboratory's mission will guide future knowledge about the big red planet. But really, why don't we hear anything about Neptune? Do we have to try to conquer the universe in order of its planets from the Earth outward? Why don't we try another approach?

Neptune is the eighth planet from our Sun. Sure, it's a lot farther than Mars but it is the fourth largest if you measure by diameter; how else would you measure? All right, you could measure by mass. In which case, Neptune is smaller in diameter but larger in mass than Uranus. And you know Uranus is one big mutha. That alone should make us want to start planning to get to Neptune and skipping those planets inbetween, all of which I have currently forgotten. (I think Saturn is one.)

Neptune, named after Roman mythology's the god of the sea, has an orbit that defies accordance with Newton's laws, whatever that means. All I know is that it's amazing the planet was not named Newton. There was a strong dispute over the right to name the planet after French guys and English guys were jointly credited with Neptune's discovery. The compromise names of Newtune and Nepton were never agreed upon and more than one bloody nose came from the decision to name it after the big, ugly sea man. That was around 1846. But more than two centuries earlier Galileo observed the mass that was later named Neptune but he thought it was a star. So he didn't name it. Galileo felt there were too many stars to name. He knew he did not have the time to invest in the project.

The U.S.sent a probe called Voyager 2 (I don't know what happened to Voyager 1) to Neptune in 1989. As far as we know, V-2 is still there. We learned a lot about the planet from V-2. I know I did.

Neptune's made up of rock, hydrogen, a little helium and methane. We all know those things, we have them on Earth. Neptune's blue due to the methane and some unidentified chromophore which gives its clouds a rich blue tint. I still don't know what identified chromophore is, no less the unidentified stuff, so that is another reason to go back to Neptune. We could all know.

However, it is a typical gas planet, much like if Newark, New Jersey would be if it was a planet. And Neptune has rapid winds. We found that out when V-2 sent back a message that one of its robot arms flew away from the main body of the ship during a storm. Neptune's winds are the fastest in the solar system, reaching 2,000 kilometers an hour, though an hour is longer on Neptune and I still don't know how to compare a kilometer to inches or feet or whatever.

Neptune has an internal heat source that radiates more than twice as much energy as it receives from the Sun. This is another great reason to explore it more; we could harness that energy, send it back to Earth and all spend far less on gas and electicity in our homes.

You see, nothing the Mars' Phoenix can do will help us here on Earth like those things that could help us by exploring Neptune. If it is discovered that Mars once had life, will your electric bills decrease? And aren't you tired of red? Mars and its red this and red that. Phoenix has already shown us that it is more brown then red, a brownish red.

It is time to write to your senators, to the people of NASA, to the Science Channel and anyone else involved with this planet stuff and insiste that we start investing in rocket to Neptune, if only to save mankind. If you wish, you may include a copy of this essay as support.

7:54 PM - 4 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

Movie script
Current mood: accomplished
Category: Movies, TV, Celebrities

My Indiana Jones script, rejected as fourth in series

Now that most people have seen the new Indiana Jones movie I can break my silence, revealing that I had begun work on one of the proposed scripts for a fourth Jones movie some time ago. It was rejected for reasons I cannot explain, even now as I read it and publish its first pages here.

So you be the judge. Read the following and see if you don't think they would have been a more exciting fourth Indiana Jones movie.

Indiana Jones and the Violently Chaotic Battle for the Ancient Brass Monkeys

FADE IN
We HEAR an explosion. We SEE it come from a small container rested upon the back of a circus STRONGMAN who resembles a muscular BOB HOPE. Sparks are hurled into the sky, some of them striking a low-flying seaplane and scalding the pilot, who slices his own tongue and jumps out of the plane without a parachute.

CLOSE-UP
The eyes of a man, older but no wiser, bloodshot. We SEE the reflection of the sparks from the explosion reflected in his face. These are the eyes of INDIANA JONES, our hero, who is named after the Jones family dog, Indiana.

CUT to a LONGSHOT
A large dog is jumping over a mailbox that reads: JONES FAMILY MAILBOX.

CLOSE-UP
INDIANA JONES' eyes. He has obviously thought about his dog, Indiana, jumping over the Jones-family mailbox a long time ago.

ZOOM OUT
We SEE the entire face of INDIANA JONES, smiling as the pilot from the plane falls to earth close to where INDIANA JONES is standing.

CUT to a LONGSHOT of INDIANA JONES looking at a dismembered circus STRONGMAN. We SEE the STRONGMAN's chest, still intact after the explosion, and it has a Communist insignia tatooed between the nipples.

STRONGMAN
(straining his voice, which has a Russian accent)
You cannot kill Communism with one bomb, Mr. Jones.

INDIANA JONES
(with his quirky smile)
Right. But it killed you.

We SEE the STRONGMAN, armless, fall face first into the dirt at the feet of INDIANA JONES, who snaps his whip and turns quickly to see fifteen fully dressed CLOWNS holding fuse-lighted dynamite sticks in their fists. We see the CLOWNS running over the hill singing the Soviet Internationale.

INDIANA JONES
Oh no, this is worse than snakes.

We SEE INDIANA JONES quickly find a long rope and tie it to an iron post. Then, he makes it taught by holding it the long way, about fifteen CLOWNS lengths away, in the path of the fifteen CLOWNS holding the fuse-lighted dynamite sticks in their fists and singing the Soviet Internationale.

LONGSHOT
The CLOWNS trip on the rope and we HEARFIFTEEN EXPLOSIONS, one from each of the dynamite sticks held by the CLOWNS.

CUT TO LONGSHOT

We SEE fifteen rubber clown noses and fifteen clown wigs and a couple of clown heads flying through the sky, along with sparks from the dynamite.

CUT TO LONGSHOT
A large dog is jumping over a mailbox that reads: JONES FAMILY MAILBOX.

CLOSE-UP
Indiana Jones' eyes. He has obviously thought again about his dog, Indiana, jumping over the Jones-family mailbox a long time ago.

CUT TO LONGSHOT
One red clown nose finds its way into one of the wing engines of a private jet flying above and we SEE the jet explode, deploying hundreds of ANCIENT BRASS MONKEYS, their shining wings flapping in the smokey sky.

CLOSE-UP
Indiana Jones' eyes.

INDIANA JONES
Holy crap, so that's what those Commies are after.

FADE TO OPENING CREDITS

4:33 PM - 3 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

Business as usual
Current mood: blessed
Category: Jobs, Work, Careers

Scamming the scammer

Email scams are finding new and inventive ways to catch suckers. Recently I received an email suggesting I could make a lot of money if I was willing to fill the following job description:  Receive payments from client, cash payments, deduct 10 percent paid on payment processed and forward balance after deduction of percentage/pay to any of the offices you will be contacted to send payment to ( Payment is to be forwarded by Western Union Transfer Minus Western Union Charges ).

I responded:

Dear Mr Wick (from the U.K.),

Just when the walls were closing in on me, with the wolf at the door, along came your email like a breath of fresh air and a new pint of ale. I would like to get involved with earning an income from my home; I am tired of burying coins in my backyard as a means to always have some loose change around. Besides, I don't own a shovel.

Before you send the information, though, let me give you a bit of my resume, to prove what a great worker I have been for years with three companies, all of which scornfully betrayed me in my time of need, or three of my times of need.

For Curtani & Sons I was a salesman and part time cook. I was responsible for more than sixty percent of their sales at one point and still made the best minestrone soup in the business. Sometimes I served as many as forty people during the times that the Curtani sons had to "go to the matresses." I outsold fifteen other salesmen, even before some of them mysteriously died in a tractor accident and despite the fact that a few sticks of dynamite were found in my briefcase.

My job ended when one of the Curtani sons was found in bed with my mother. I went to the head of the Curtani family and objected, noting that my mother had been dead for days before the incident. Siding with his family, papa Curtaini gave me five minutes to leave the grounds or be gutted from the stomach down.

Penniless after not being able to collect my owed commission of more than five-million dollars, I went to Switzerland and became a consultant to the Bulovarian Watch Company. Even though I could not ski, the top brass treated me well. I was given a company car, a company expense account, a company hotel suite and a company whore.

All was well until the CEO turned out to be the son of a Nazi war criminal found to be living in the basement of the bank where the company kept its receipts. Interpol was convinced that the long-lost Nazi was having an affair with the company whore and cooking the company books with him so the two could escape with most of the company profits and begin an attempt to take over the world. But the company whore told Interpol that I was the one cooking the books, using my history as a part-time cook with Curtani & Sons as evidence I could cook.

Interpol arrested me and then exiled me from Switzerland. The Bulovarian Watch Company offered no severence pay, so I headed back to the U.S. and ran for a local office in Pennsylvania. When I won the office I decorated it with state money and was indicted for arranging furniture in a government-owned space without a permit. I collected only one paycheck from the state job and had to use that to finally bury my mother.

So here I am, Mr Wick from the U.K. Thank you for finding me in another time of need and offering me a chance to make some money and live like a human being with dignity. I am not one of those who would call your offer a hoax. I would more call it a blessing in disguise, a cloud from heaven, a devine situation cloaked in a silk cape. So lay it on me, bro, what do I do next?

Yours,
Frank Cotolo

5:38 PM - 3 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

Family
Current mood: cooky/wacky
Category: Romance and Relationships

Memories of my father

My father's birthday is coming and since he died I not only remember the date but I remember him. This year I am going to share some of my deepest thoughts about the man who is half responsible for my creation.

I feel, first, it is important to present the fact that I do not have "father issues." This is an amazing condition considering that in 1956 my father was suspected of being a serial killer.

Most psychiatrists I have visited remain shocked that the constant flow of detectives through my family's apartment, the unflattering photos of my father printed in the newspapers and the embarassing number of dead people's clothing stored in our closets did not injure or destroy the image of my father for me.

Few things that reflected upon my father's reputation ever thwarted my admiration for him. When I was seven, he told me that he dubbed all of Frank Sinatra's vocals but was too modest to receive any payment for the effort and I believed him. When I was eight, he told me that it was his idea that King Kong climb and fall from the Empire State Building in the original version of the movie King Kong; he added that before his idea, the director wanted the mighty ape to jump into the Hudson River and drown at the movie's end. I believed him.

He told me other things, too. When I was ten, my father told me I was eighteen. When I was eleven, he said he lied about my being eighteen and told me I was really eight.

Once he took me to a neighborhood in our home town and swore we were in Norway. Another time he took me to Yankee Stadium and promised that after the game he would introduce me to Mickey Mantle. When the game ended, he convinced me that Mantle had a heart attack in the ninth inning and had to be taken to a hospital.

By trade, my father was a plumber but he swore that it was only a part-time job. "Actually," he said to me when I was either ten or eighteen or eleven, "I am a professional dancer; one of those guys in Spain who stomps gracefully on tables and holds his arms up like a Spanish dancer." This was hard to believe considering my father weighed in over two-hundred pounds but I never doubted him.

When my father died, I didn't believe he was dead because my father was always faking his death. This, it turned out, was one of the reasons he was accused of being a serial killer. He faked his own death so well, so many times, that the police thought he had killed as many people as the number of times he proposed to have died.

So this year I celebrate the memories of my father and wonder if he is really dead now and, of course, was he really my father?

7:52 PM - 4 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

Literature
Current mood: dirty
Category: Writing and Poetry

Looking for Frost, part one

When I was twelve and I was beginning to write poetry, my teachers, some friends and one grocer agreed that my poetry was much like the poetry of Robert Frost. I didn't know it was a complement because I had never read anything written by Robert Frost or for that matter, by anyone with the first name of Robert or the second name of Frost. But being curious, I looked up the fellow and found out that he lived in Boston.

After I discovered that Boston was in the state of Massachusetts (I swore it was in Wyoming before that) I stole some money from my father's wallet and headed there. It thought it would be good to meet him and show him my poetry and tell him that he wasn't the only one who could write this kind of stuff.

I met some guy wearing a baseball uniform at a diner when I got to Boston and asked him if he knew where I could find the poet Robert Frost. This guy said his name was Brooks Robinson and I gave him a nickle and told him to give it to someone who cared because I was looking for the poet Robert Frost. This Brooks fellow seemed angry that I didn't know who he was and he said so. I kicked him in his left knee and he said, "Frost lives in the east side of town, all right?" I thanked him and left the diner after I shoved my check into the back pocket of his uniform.

Later that same day I was on the east side of Boston. I stopped a policeman and asked him if he knew where I could find the poet Robert Frost.

"Is he one of them rhymin' poem fellas?" the policeman asked in a New England accent so rich and thick it almost stretched his mouth twice its size.

"Sometimes," I said.

"You aren't from around here, are you?"

"No."

"Then go home to where you are around from, because we don't like your type around here."

"What type?"

"The type that asks for the poet Robert Frost."

I kicked him in his left knee and ran up the street, around a corner, where I crashed into a vegetable stand. Oranges went rolling down the street and that gave me an idea. I took out my pad and pen and I wrote:

Oranges as large as tumors in a tummy
Skin thick, covering juices sweet and yummy ...

The man who ran the vegetable stand --which is a good start for a poem in itself-- had fallen next to me and read my two lines. He whispered to me softly as his nose bled for the impact of the crash, "That is so Frost-like."

~To be continued

6:49 PM - 2 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

Celebrities on a train
Current mood: breezy
Category: Movies, TV, Celebrities

Celebrities on a German train

I was on a train with Lars Ulrich a while back and I could not help but notice that he ate everything out of a bed of lettuce. In the dining car they became used to it, so Lars never had to ask for a bed of lettuce under his scrambled eggs. They just gave it to him.

Hard as it was, I shared a compartment with him but only because Lou Reed paid good money to me so that he didn't have to room with Lars. Lou said, "He's just too loud. My ears can't take it." I told Lou not to cry so much about getting older, reminding him that he is younger than that now.

When the train stopped at the Osnabruck station, Bjork came on with a small man carrying his luggage. "Who's the hunchback?" I said to Bjork, who was pissed because he had to ride coach. It turned out that Bjork's companion was a distant relative of another man whose name was missing letters. Bjork put the guy on the Bjork payroll, at least until he got to Wurzberg.

Speaking of people with missing letters in their names, Michael Buble got into a raging argument with a random passenger who claimed Michael sang the wrong lyrics to The Spider-man Theme. I further aggrivated the scuffle when I insisted that there was no hyphen in Spiderman's name, thus corrupting the title as Michael sang it. By the fifth or sixth drink, Michael swore that I was wrong because he sang the hyphen and said if I couldn't hear that I had no ear for music. I took a swing at him but I hit the bartender instead and ran away before he came to consciousness. I don't know, really, if he ever did.

Meanwhile, Lars was in our compartment trying on hats and wondering: if a record store closes and there are no customers around, does it still make a sound?

Things really got hot when Bono boarded at Stuttgart. I wasn't looking for trouble when I asked him how Cher was doing but he didn't take kindly to the remark. He grabbed my colar and said, "You listen to me you Italian belt, I am part of the peace movement, I know the Dalai Lama personally and I have saved more trees than Sting can see from an airplane, so don't think I can't clock you with my right fist so hard you will spin like a metronome." He let me down after the firm warning and I made my way to the observation deck.

There, Taylor Swift and Al Green were exchanging grooves. I sat next to Tom Morello, who was trying to think of other artists besides Elvis Costello whose names rhymed with his, and I said, "Tom, do you tune down?" He apparently thought I said something else because he shoved me off of my seat and wrapped a guitar's high E string around my neck and growled at me. Swift and Green laughed as he rambled out of the observation car and I stood up, coughing.

Next time I fly.

7:24 PM - 5 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

Tokyo
Current mood: amused
Category: Travel and Places

My strange and wonderful association with Tokyo

When I was nine-years-old I was struck on the head with a tour-guide book of Tokyo, a bound publication large enough to cause a major bump on my scalp. However, the bump was normal; what was abnormal was that ever since the incident I have known numerous facts about Japan's great capital city. It's as if the information from the book permeated my brain upon impact.

Go figure.

As far as I know, I never visited Tokyo as a youngster. I may have gone there when I was thirteen with a family of unknown origin but all of my remembrances as a teen are suspect since the operation on my inner ear at age twelve. That operation would have been routine except for the fact that the surgeon had only five fingers due to a poor choice of gestures at a Benihana restaurant a week before my surgery.

But I do know a lot about Tokyo. The one in Japan, that is.

First, let me say that this is very big city, one that might be the largest city in the world, especially when you consider its size. Tokyo includes many other cities, towns and villages and contains over 17 million people. I could name them but that would take up too much space.

Akasaka is the high-class area of the city and a great word for playing with words. Like: A-ka-sa-ka, bak-ala-ka, wok-a-pock-a ... well, you get the idea. People in Akasaka, though, aren't much for playing with words. They like to spend money and spend they do when they go to restaurants, stores and clubs. Everything in Akasaka is overpriced if you compare it with New York City's Delancy Street, at least.

Then there is Akihabara, which a lot of people confuse with Abrakadabra. The latter is not a city in Japan. In fact it isn't a place; it's a stupid word magicians use, and I don't even believe magicians actually perform magic, do you? Anyway, Akihabara has the largest concentration of electronics shops in the world, although I hear talk that there is a neighborhood in Turkey rapidly approaching that status. If you are looking for electronic hardware, Akihabara is the place to shop. Don't listen to people on the street who tell you that it is better to buy electronic stuff at Shinjuku West Exit because Akihabara is the place to go shopping in Tokyo for electronics.

Did I mention that I needed stitches when the tour-guide book of Tokyo hit my head? Because I didn't need stitches and that would have been a lie. What matters most, though, especially now as I fill you in about Tokyo, is that there have been many sightings throughout Tokyo of a man people believe is Elvis Presley. The question remains, however, that if Elvis Presley did not die, why would he go to Tokyo? And if he did, would he be interested in electronic hardware available in Akihabara? I do know this: Elvis would love to sing A-ka-sa-ka, bak-ala-ka, wok-a-pock-a ... well, you get the idea.

11:10 AM - 3 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

Professions
Current mood: adored
Category: Jobs, Work, Careers

Do you have what it takes to be a doctor?

Here is one --in fact it is the first, especially if others follow-- in a series of useful and informative lists that can help you decide on a career. I know there are many readers of this column thinking about finding a career position that will best suit them.

It is unfortunate that many people strive, work, slave and spend a lot of money trying to be what they can never be, simply because they have not been able to honestly answer a few questions before they take on the wrath of education. Save yourself time and answer the questions below and you will know if you have what it takes to be ... a doctor.

1. Are you the type of person who enjoys a lot of reading and, especially, memorizing things with Latin-based names?
2. Do you feel Latin should be brought back as a viable language or that any human anatomical item should be renamed using Spanish or Hebrew?
3. Have you ever had a strong urge to know exactly how a pancreas works?
4. Would it bother you to look someone in the eyes and say, "If I were you I would go home and check the spelling of the names in your will."
5. If someone cures the common cold, would you be adverse to chipping in to find an assassin and whack the guy ... or gal?
6. Do you own white smocks?
7. Do you promise not to prescribe fun-time medications for yourself?
8. Were you ever good at sewing by hand?
9. In the case of a medical emergency, would you be willing to charge at least half of your regular fee?
10. Do you know the meaning of "house" in the phrase, "Is there a doctor in the house?"
11. If you were to hire a nurse to work in your office, would you purposely hire one who played a nurse in a porno movie?
12. If you answered "yes" to number 11, would you then look for another nurse, one who is bisexual?
13. Yes or no: a terminal illness is not necessarily transmitted only at an airport.
14. Are you willing to keep up with advances in medical techniques, though once in a while still be comfortable saying, "Take two aspirin and call me in the morning"?
15. Who played Dr. Kildare in the movies of the 1940s?
16. Was Doctor Detroit, as portrayed by Dan Akroyd in the movie of the same name, a medical doctor?
17. If you were Dr. Kevorkian, the infamous engineer of assisted deaths, how would wear your hair?
18. Can you swim?
19. Do you feel it is all right for a general practitioner to smoke a pipe?
20. All of the above.

If you answered all of the 20 questions above with candor, chances are you can be a doctor.

11:32 AM - 3 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment