Wednesday, September 30, 2009

Sleep Trouble

I went to my doctor because I’ve been having trouble sleeping. He asked me how I sleep. I told him I lay on my back with my legs and arms sticking straight up in the air and scream at the top of my lungs until I fall asleep. He said, “I think the problem is that you’re screaming at the top of your lungs.” I said, “I think your suit is too big. It looks like you put on your dad’s coat.” He told me he recently lost a lot of weight. I told him that if he wasn’t such a pussy he would gain it back. He told me that was rude and to take it back. I told him I lost the receipt. He said, “What the hell are you talking about?” I said I didn’t want to get into the details of retail customer service, since it would only confuse him. He asked why I came into his office if I wasn’t going to show him respect. I asked why he came into this world if he was going to be a pussy and not even try to be the fattest man on the earth. He asked why he would want to do that. I told him to read a fucking book every once in a while. He said, “I’m a doctor; of course I’ve read books before.” I said, “Before what?” He said, “What?” I said, “Jesus Christ, how old are you? You look fourteen.” He told me he is sixty-one. I said, “I’m surprised you haven’t died yet.” He told me most people live longer than sixty-one. I asked from which asshole he pulled that bullshit statistic out of. He said he read it in a book. I said, “Nice going, you fucking bookworm. I’m sure the ladies love your numbers and equations.” He told me he’s been married for forty years. I said, “Last night I drank forty beers.” He told me I was lying. I said, “You’re right. Yeah, I came into your office just so I could make up fairy tales for you. Let’s cut the shit, doc. Want to get a burger?” He declined and I ate my burger alone. I still can’t get to sleep.

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