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Jasper Tells a Story

I was in a bar last week, sharing a newspaper with my old friend Jasper, who, after a long silence, stood atop his barstool and did what he always does when he’s feeling passionate: He looked me directly in the forehead, all bug-eyed with dilated pupils and a vacant expression and rambled at me as if we’d never met.

He said:

“Hey there, pal, if you’re like most men, you stay up all night, angry and distressed, tossing and turning, and wondering till dawn what you would ever do if you had to fistfight a gorilla, because you know you’d never win. They are very strong and have huge, furious molars, and even though they are vegetarians they are way meaner than you and could pummel you to death if you ever tried to steal their harem.

There is, however, my typical man, one fact that will put all of us men at ease when we confront this existential threat, and that is this: Gorilla dicks are way smaller than human dicks.

It’s weird to acknowledge, but it makes many men feel ecstatic to learn that a mighty silverback gorilla has—on average—a one-and-a-half-inch boner, whereas humans—never mind all of our back problems, birth-process issues, dependence on corrective lenses, our relatively sissy little jawbones, and our inability to digest most raw meat, grass, and lots of other stuff—never mind all that… We still have incredibly large dicks compared with other animals. And it’s weird that that gives us as much solace as it does, but it does.

And let me tell you this, young squire: Senior year of high school, I was making out in a car with a girl who’d never seen or touched my penis, and I learned from her later that in our cramped situation, my hip bone had been rubbing against her clitoris, which gave her an intense orgasm.

She told me later that she thought it had been my cock the whole time, but instead of feeling joy that I was able to give the love of my life an orgasm, I instead became obsessed with the question of why this woman thought I was the type of dude who would have a hip-bone sized cock.

So anyways, that’s what it’s like to be a guy.”

 

I said, “That’s a very interesting story, Jasper.”

And he continued:

“Why, a few years ago a beautiful lady and I were walking down the block from the Filthy Hubcap to a new hotspot called the Adjective Noun to see a Marilyn Monroe Look-Not-At-All-Alike Contest hosted by last year’s winner, former WWF wildman Hacksaw Jim Duggan, and on our way we passed a group of men headed in the opposite direction.

She said to me, ‘I always think it’s funny when guys check out my chest and then immediately look back up when they realize there’s not much going on down there.’

And of course I said to my lady, ‘The reason why they look up so fast isn’t because they think your breasts are too small, it’s because they don’t want you to know that they’re staring at your breasts.’”

At this point, Jasper stopped his story cold, as we both made an unsettling discovery:

Women…

Can tell…

When we’re looking at their breasts. It doesn’t matter if you look back up very quickly. They can see your eyes move.

Jasper turned into a cactus and somersaulted through windows.

I divined the ability to speak fluent Dutch, a language of which I had no prior knowledge. A language that consists entirely of barking only consonants at a blank wall while shaking and drooling.

So anyways, that’s what it’s like to be a guy. So we can all understand that it’s fun to hit and break things. It’s beautiful to hit and break things. But there is no beauty in hitting or breaking something that doesn’t want to be hit or broken.

If Keith Moon lights dynamite in his own drum set, the world becomes more beautiful.

If Julie from accounts payable lights dynamite in my drum set—just for fun—the world is a might-bit sucky.

Everybody knows that if you make a fist and press it gavel-side down against the window of a foggy car, and add little dots for toes, it looks just like a tiny foot, and then you can make it look like a baby has been walking all over the car.

Everybody knows this.

But did you know that if you pull your pants down, and press your naked junk against the window of a foggy car, you can go to jail?

Such was the fate of Ol’ Crawdaddy Philips. Finest candlestick maker in all of Silicon Valley. Moonlighted as a blacksmith and churned his own butter.

Funny thing was, Crawdaddy Philips got arrested for humping his own car—a janky old Rolls Royce with Yosemite Sam mudflaps and the trunk gutted out and converted into a pond for his vegan crocodile!

Cop said, “You’re comin’ with me Crawdaddy. I’m sick of your antics and I’m takin’ you to jail!”

What you have to understand though, is that jail in Silicon Valley isn’t the same as jail in America.

No, those young entrepreneurial upstarts petitioned their government in 2012, arguing that the whole jail project lacked potential optimization potential potential return potential overhead.

“There has to be a more efficient way to do time!” argued all the men who work at Tumblr, Twitter, Facebook, and Foursquare.

“Agreed!” shouted a lady who wasn’t there.

No. In Silicon Valley, criminals have the option of guinea-pigging the tech world’s most ambitious project: The Art Helmet.

The art helmet connects directly to your brain and seeks the purest forms of beauty and horror lurking inside, and it allows you to project your brain-art to an auditorium of spectators, each receiving your art through their own receptacle helmets. The idea is to remove the imperfections that arise from our archaic media: the botched brushstroke, the fumbled piano solo, etc.

And here the crowd had already gathered in the auditorium, wondering what sort of performance they could get from this small-time crook.

“Well,” said the officer backstage. “Here’s your art helmet. What type of art will you give them tonight? Something scary? Funny? Surreal?”

Crawdaddy Philips grinned and cackled, “I’ma gonna give ‘em a porno.”

And the cop protested. “You can’t do that! It’s the Art Helmet, not the Porn Helmet!”

No.

“Listen here, copper. You hand over that art helmet to Ol’ Crawdaddy Philips, and I’ll make you some art that’ll get your dick so hard simile, simile, metaphor!”

Then he snatched the device and ran onstage to face 300 skeptical yuppies.

But Ol’ Crawdaddy got to work, and within five minutes the audience thinked the thought of a pretty lady with salt n’ pepper hair suckin’ some cock(s).

The audience was so moved by this blowjob that one might be tempted to think, upon hearing this completely true story, that this was a romantic, heartwarming, sweet blowjob.

No.

Heartwarming blowjobs exist—certainly—but this was not that. This was a blowjob for voyeurs.

This was a blowjob for folks who dig a stream of mascara rolling over apple cheeks. It was the other kind of romance.

But just when these thoughts reached a peak, everyone was urged to think the thought of a lone tombstone atop a serene hill.

With their eyes they saw Crawdaddy Philips crying onstage as he gently willed them to think the thought that the inscription on the tombstone began, “Here lies Crawdaddy Margret.”

They joined him. Shedding tears, as they shared his heartbreak and celebration of existence, and during the standing ovation, boners poked spines in the sweetest way that a boner can poke a spine. Victorian-era theater seating was stained in the most wonderful way that a lady can stain an antique, and Crawdaddy Philips drifted away on his magical wings that he has, over to the greenroom to await his sentencing.

The police officer said, “Hey there, snapdad. That was a beautiful performance, so you’re free to go. All charges dropped.”

And Crawdaddy Philips said, “Thank you kindly, the fuzz. But I won’t stop humping my Rolls Royce.”

“You really ruined the sentimental mood there, Philips.”

Then they kissed each other on the mouths and told beautiful lies about each other at the dinner table every Christmas.

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The Drunkest Man That Has Ever Been

The drunkest man in history paid me a visit last night.

I was wary about letting him in, but curiosity overtook me as I became skeptical that he was indeed as drunk as he claimed.

Let me tell you something, dear reader: This was the drunkest man that has ever been.

I put on some music and we sat at the kitchen table for a chat.

“So tell me, how did you get so drunk?”

“Ah. Well, I started drinking Sunday, and then when it came time to stop and sleep, I did neither.”

“Fair enough.” I offered him a beer, which brought a smile to his face, and then a pondering examination of the can.

“You know what they should make?” he asked.

“What?”

“They should make 10 ounce beers.”

“Huh? Why?”

“Well, say you wanted two fewer ounces—”

“With all due respect, sir, you are unbelievably drunk, and that is the stupidest idea I have ever heard.”

“I just think there should be an option. Why should all beers be 12 ounces?”

“I agree that variety in beer size would be a fine thing, but why default to 10? That’s only slightly smaller, and grossly impractical.”

“Well, say you wanted two fewer ounces—”

“Sir! Listen to me and listen carefully, you drunkard. You might make a profit, but your entire market would be people who thought they were buying 12 ounce beers. They would take their slightly smaller beers home from the store, then say, ‘Dang, I didn’t mean to get the tiny ones.’”

“Not true.”

“Yes true. It would be like if Milky Way made one flavor of candy bar with caramel, chocolate, and nougat, and then another with caramel, chocolate, nougat, and shit. Sure they would sell a few now and again, but only to people who would later say, ‘Damn it, I didn’t mean to get this shit kind.”

“I have lots of good ideas,” he said, to my aggravation.

“I say it again, sir, you are drunk. Quite drunk. I’m not sure I want to hear any more of your ideas.”

“Well, I was just thinking about how there should be more love in the world,” said the drunkest man on Earth.

“I certainly agree with that.”

“And, perhaps we should designate a holiday for love. Once a year we will all write cards to the people we like, and perhaps take our lovers out on a date.”

I almost vomited at this man’s drunkenness.

“There is no goddamn way you’re being serious right now. You honestly think we need a holiday to remind ourselves to love the people we love? How offensive. How condescending. What’s next, Don’t Eat Poison Day? And you think we all would want to team up and do it on the same day? No, you’re drunk. Think of how awful that would be, man. Think of how painful it would be trying to get a dinner reservation. Think of the anguish this would put on single people, and how impractical it would be that people needed to coordinate their romances around this idiocy. You need to stop drinking, good sir, or you will die very soon.”

I threw a spoon at him. He walked around the table and punched me very hard in the mouth. I pulled him toward me and bit his stomach as he punched my head.

“Let’s not do this anymore, friend.”

“Good plan.”

We chatted a while more about life and art, but as is often the case, things got ugly when politics arose.

“Do you know what should be illegal?” asked the most inebriated thing in 13.72 billion years of existence.

“What?” I clenched my fists, anticipating rage.

“It should be illegal to be naked in public. People should be arrested if they don’t wear clothes outside.”

I took a deep breath, wanting nothing more than to fight this gentleman.

“I’m certain I need not remind you,” I began through my teeth, “that you are tremendously drunk. I have never met a man as drunk as you. In fact, no one has. So I want to forgive that last comment, but not without a rebuttal. You do realize, fine sir, that if legislation were passed outlawing public nudity, there would be violent rioting in all cities of this nation. Every single piece of government property would be set aflame by the furious masses who know that said law is a direct, tyrannical violation of their right to be. What you just suggested does not even make sense. I am overcome with bewilderment that anybody could say something so odd.”

“I just think it’s unwholesome.”

We fought. We fought for hours. Halfway through our battle I managed to crawl across the wreckage of my home and latch the front door. I didn’t want anyone to come in and stop our fight. I am typing this on a keyboard splashed with blood and vomit.

The drunkest man in history left at dawn. He was still quite drunk.

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Dragging Dead Teddy

I used to go to a certain coffee shop every day after work. I don’t actually drink coffee, but I do like to steal sugar packets and look at strange people. Aside from that, I had developed a friendship with the shop’s owner, Simon Crusoe. Simon was fat and hairy, and I told him he should open a bakery, since he looked like the type of person who would do that.

I always came in about an hour before closing, and after his doors shut we would hang out in the empty shop, swap stories, and talk about stuff that didn’t really matter.

One night after closing, Simon brought out a guitar from the back room, along with his usual cup of jo.

“I didn’t know you played.”
“Oh, yeah. Sometimes.”

He started strumming gently. It was calm and sweet sounding. I liked it. I was sitting in my chair, relaxing, wondering if he would notice if I took the honey jar. Then I noticed his nametag for the first time. It read, “Simon Miller.”

“Why does your nametag say Simon Miller?”
“Because that’s my name.”

He continued strumming.

“Everyone calls you Crusoe.”
“Yeah, I got that nickname after being shipwrecked in the Pacific for a few weeks.”
“What? How come you never told me about that?”

Simon then started to play a new tune, an upbeat rockabilly-type rhythm that reminded me of Jerry Lee Lewis. He sang these words:

I got stranded on an island once with my best friends
There was Chuck, Jeff, and Jeb, and poor old Ted
Ted got attacked by a lion, bad
But we snatched the remains of the body he had

Draggin’ Dead Teddy through the island there
Draggin’ Dead Teddy from the lion’s lair
Gonna bury him up like good people done
“I’m sorry, Jeff, I think I dropped his lung”

Well, desert islands get boring real fast
And the stuff we were doin’ wasn’t much of a blast
But then we saw Ted up against that tree
And decided to take up puppetry

Playin’ with Teddy, would you look at him go
Stringin’ him up just like Pinocchio
Tied ropes round his arms, made a puppet rig
“Hey look here, Chuck! He’s doin’ a jig!”

Simon stopped playing to take a sip of coffee.

“This is a funny song,” I said.
“Yeah, it’s all true, too.”

Before I could respond to this ridiculous claim, he began singing again:

Well, man can’t live on games alone
He gets urges in his body, from skin to bone
It had been a while since we’d seen our wives
We said, “Well, heck, Ted’s not alive!”

Porkin’ Dead Teddy on the island there
Doin’ Dead Teddy in the derriere
It was fun and all, ’cept for the smell
“Well dammit, Jeb, we’re goin’ to hell.”

We were finally rescued by a pilot man
He saw us in his plane and decided to land
Hallelujah! We’re saved! What a stroke of luck!
But he said he wouldn’t fly on an empty gut…

Eatin’ Dead Teddy, man, he taste so fine
Wish we had potatoes, biscuits ’n’ wine
We looked down at our friend and sunk in our teeth
“Take a picture, Cap’n, it’s a Teddy feast!”

The song, by now, had made me furious.

“Simon, you’re a goddamn liar. None of that actually happened.”

He then stood up, went to the back room, and brought out an old photo album…

Simon Crusoe is a filthy man, and I won’t speak to him anymore.

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A Frightening Discovery

“Wait — What the hell?”

I woke this morning in a cold sweat.

“Why did my alarm go off so early? Do I have to go to work? At a job?!”

How could this happen? Just the other day I was lounging about in my bathrobe, sipping a morning gin and fingerpainting my walls with Cheeto dust.

What’s changed? Why can’t I just do what I want?

My spine quivered when the answer hit.

“Oh, no… Saturday! It’s gone!”

I was afraid to look out the front door, for fear that the others might be rioting at this news. But I couldn’t just lock myself in here forever (obviously not… since it wasn’t Saturday anymore).

I tiptoed onto the porch, and to my surprise the rest of the townspeople were not smashing windows or chucking molotovs.

They just looked beaten down. Had someone gotten to them?

Somber-faced men and women with combed hair drearily schlepped into their autos, a briefcase in one hand and a coffee in the other. It felt like someone was squeezing my heart as I witnessed this madness, this defeat.

And then I saw him over our partition, and jumped so high my willy almost got covered by my open robe.

“Ah! Pete!” I screamed.

“Yeah? What?”

“What are you doing, you fool!”

“I’m going to work. It’s Monday.”

“Damn it, Pete. When did this happen?”

“Hmmm. About midnight last night.”

“Oh, in the cloak of darkness… sneaky.”

“Yeah, it really sucks, but what can we do about it?”

“Pete! You can’t just give in! This is our fight. They can’t do this to us. Think about how great it was back when it was Saturday!”

“Aahhh, yeah. That was sweet. What ever happened to that?”

“I’m not sure, but we can’t stand for it. This… this is tyranny, Pete.”

“God damn it, you’re right. I can’t believe I even went this far with this bullshit!”

He tore off his tie like a wildman and threw his coffee against my garage before drop kicking his briefcase into the bougainvillea.

“Come on, Pete, there’s an uprising a-brewin’, and I for one ain’t gonna stand for this fucking, Monday, shit!”

“Bring Saturday back!”

“Bring Saturday back!”

We called a network of our most radical allies and took to the cellar to make picket signs. It worked in the ’60s, damn it, and it can work again.

We wracked our brains to pen our most brutal political slogans, including “Enough of this Monday Oppression!” “We Demand Justice!” and our action committee’s signature, “Bring Saturday Back!”

By dusk we were drained of energy, and our hands hurt from pounding angrily on tabletops.

Thankfully, academia by now had latched on to this trend, and we could feed our intellectual fury with a new special on the BBC called “Gregory Harrison: The Logical Imperative that it be Saturday.”

A brief sample of the esteemed neuroscientist’s lecture:

Imagine for a moment a world in which Saturday doesn’t exist. We don’t even get Sunday. Try to envision a world in which all human beings wake up at 7:30 without any morning beer, go to work because they have to, come home, and there still aren’t any cartoons on.

I can gauge by your reactions that most of us are in agreement that — to put it mildly — this is not a world best suited for human flourishing. And yet every day we get messages from well-educated and otherwise sane members of the philosophical and scientific communities telling us that this isn’t terrible — that we’re just not looking at the situation from all sides.

Does anyone else see a problem with this? Saturday is, by all accounts, much better than the other days.

Now, it seems that all you have to do, to grasp my argument, is accept the claim that a world in which there is at least one Saturday is drastically more wonderful than a world where there is none. And this opens up a continuum, where we see intervals of wonderful experiences appear closer and closer together in direct correlation to the amount of Saturday in existence for each of these hypothetical worlds. What follows is the logical and moral imperative that it be Saturday again.

I just really want it to be Saturday.

Oh, yes. The revolution starts tonight.

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A Doctor

For the most part my doctor is completely normal, and maybe even more professional than others I’ve had.

He’s always on schedule, usually forgoes small talk for actual in-depth conversations about current events, and never once made me physically uncomfortable.

But there are other things about him that bug me a bit.

They are rare occurrences, but I have a lot of health problems, so I’ve been in and out of here enough to say I’ve seen too much.

At my first pap smear with him he shaved an Om symbol into my pubes while I wasn’t paying attention.

It was shocking that someone would do that without asking, but it was just so darned detailed that I didn’t mention it.

Then he asked,

I thought he was hitting on me, so I said yes because it seemed like something that would make for a funny story. But then he just gave me the business card of a yoga studio and said, “Maybe try this place. I found this card in the parking lot.”

Another time, while I was reading in the waiting room, I spotted him hiding in a cabinet about 20 feet away, spying on me.

“What are you doing?” I asked.
“What are you doing?” he replied.
“Reading.”
“Anything good?”
“Well, it’s kind of a campy romance, but I like that stuff sometimes.”
“Hahaha!”
“Don’t laugh!”
“Hahahahahahaha!
“Awwww, stop teasing!”
“That’s hilarious! Do you ever imagine that you’re the woman in those fantasies?”

Then, very very slowly, vomit started to pour from his mouth.

We stared in silence for a long time and neither of us blinked and then he dove behind a desk and I heard him crawling to his office.

The appointment that day went so swimmingly that I thought it best to just not mention what had happened.

Another time he rode a nurse like a horse all day.

I told him I liked the cowboy boots he was wearing, and he said, “What, these old things? They belonged to my father. But he ain’t gettin’ ’em back.”

The nurse garbled something through the bit in her teeth.

“What?” the doctor asked. “You didn’t speak to him, I hope.”

“Mmfff… *cough* No, he just looks ticked off.”

My spine tingled and I peed a bit when I turned to the window to see a very old, very tiny man in a cowboy hat peering in at us and frowning.


The doctor hopped off his steed and ran out the back door, and we watched him grapple on the lawn with the old man, whom he eventually lassoed and hogtied.

The doctor looked at us and started posing and flexing, then the old man bit the doctor’s shin and he fell over screaming and rolled down a steep hill into some bushes.

I turned to the nurse, “Doesn’t it ever get to you? Having to work with such a lunatic?”

She stood up, pulled the bit out of her mouth, and said,

“The doctor is very peculiar, no doubt…

… but he’s a master in many fields of healthcare. His work in dialysis is unmatched by anyone in the state, and his patients are always treated with the utmost concern. In the end, he is my boss and my mentor, and as bizarre as he is, I accept him. After meditating on it for years, I now believe that those of us who see the world clearly must judge the hazy-eyed based on the good that they do, however odd their mannerisms may be.”

“That’s a beautiful philosophy,” I said. “Since I was a kid, I’ve always felt so alone in the world — as if I’m the only level-headed person around.”

“Oh, yes. I’ve been wandering down that road since I learned to speak, and it takes a great deal of patience, my child. A patience that will define itself and grow strong as long as you strive for truth… But anyway, I hope all this didn’t shake you up too much.”

“I’m OK, just a little parched is all.”

“No problem. I’ll take care of you, darlin’.”

Then she went outside with a tin bucket and tried to milk the old man, but he just bit her a lot.

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Foodie Blender

I will take all of the foodies in the world and put them into a blender. All the people who order food and whine about it or praise it as if it were a reasonable topic for conversation, I will put them into a big ol’ blender and slice them up.

First will be the people who send food back just because it has a dab of some condiment on it that they don’t agree with. I will lift them over my head (I’m a gorilla) and throw them into the blender.

Then will come the wine connoisseurs, then the people who think they can taste the difference between organic produce and this red stuff I found. All going into my giant blender.

I will slice them up until they are a thick beverage, and pour them into a giant trough for the homeless people.

Then the homeless people will say, “We don’t have to drink humans out of a trough over at the shelter. They give us soup in a bowl.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Well, can we have some money instead?”
“Yeah, take whatever’s leftover from the foodies. It’s not much, because they spent most of it on stupid things.”

And because of my kindness, the sturdiest of them will piggy-back me to church. There I will follow along with the service, listening intently to the preacher. When, after 45 minutes, he doesn’t say a goddamn thing of any use to anybody, I will stand and shout, “You there! Shut the fuck up!”

After that, I will go outside, and some cool people will tell me that I care too much about how others perceive me, and that I should be more laid-back. Then I will point to their cool tattoos and say, “You shut the fuck up!”

Then I’ll be parched, and I’ll drink some of the foodies, whom I put into my thermos.

Then a different type of cool person will walk up to me and say, “Chug, bro. Chug it. Bro. Chug that. Chug it. Bro. Bro. Bro. Bro. Bro. Bro. Bro. Bro. Bro. Bro. Bro. Bro. Bro. Bro. Bro. Bro. Bro. Bro. Bro. Bro. Bro. Bro. Bro. Bro. Bro. Bro. Bro. Bro.”

I’ll walk past this person. I think I see something more interesting over there.

It’s another cool person. She has someone lying face-down on a table. She is putting rocks onto the person’s back.

“Why are you doing that thing?”
“I’m curing him. These rocks will heal him up good.”
“What?! Rocks can cure people just by you putting them on their backs? I can’t believe no one’s ever told me this before!”
“The illuminati want to keep it a secret.”

“Oh… HYAAA!!!” Foodie juice all over her face.

Then I will start running, until I trip and fall onto my head. I will then realize what I’ve become — a cynic — and I will feel so low.

I will trace my steps, apologizing to all the people I had judged and yelled at earlier. I will ask if they want to come over to the community center I rented for a barbecue.

They will all come over and have a wonderful time, but I will be moping in the corner, feeling bad about how mean I was.

Then Alfalfa will come over to me and say, “Did you know there’s a blender under this floor? And did you know that button behind you causes this floor to open up? And, did you further know, that all your guests are dancing right over that crack? And I’ve got the key!”

Then after they’re all blended up, Alfalfa and I will hang out for a bit, then he’ll shoot me over something about a dog? What? Fuck you too, Alfalfa.

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A Gynecologist Takes the Rorschach Test

Psychiatrist: And what do you see here?
Gynecologist: A vagina.
Psychiatrist: Hmmm… And how about here, what do you see?
Gynecologist: A vagina.
Psychiatrist: Interesting… And in this one?
Gynecologist: Well, I’m certain that’s a vagina. It’s a photograph of a vagina.
Psychiatrist: Yes, it’s my vagina. Is there anything wrong with it?
Gynecologist: It looks pretty good to me.
Psychiatrist: No, come on. Take a closer look. I’m worried about it.
Gynecologist: Hey, buddy, I’m not on duty right now.
Psychiatrist: Come on, man. Analyze my vagina and I’ll give a mental diagnosis on the house. Quid pro quo.
Gynecologist: Hmmm… OK, well, I can tell right off the bat that you probably have a higher than average testosterone level. There are a few things I notice that indicate it, but there’s really nothing to worry about. Other than that everything looks fine.
Psychiatrist: Oh, I have high testosterone now? You think I’m manly?
Gynecologist: That’s not what I’m saying. It’s really nothing to worry about. Just —
Psychiatrist: Well, here’s your diagnosis: You’re a dickhead. How’s that?
Gynecologist: Hey, no I’m not! I’m a doctor, damn it.
Psychiatrist: A doctor of judgment!
Gynecologist: Look, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. It’s a common condition, and there’s nothing wrong with you.
Psychiatrist: OK, sure, whatever… Can we carry on?
Gynecologist: You tell me.
Psychiatrist: Let’s focus. So what do you see in this one?
Gynecologist: Don’t show me that, I’m not a proctologist.
Psychiatrist: It’s your face! Hahahahahahaha!
Gynecologist: Hey! I’m sorry, OK? Let’s try to be mature. Stop showing me your junk.
Psychiatrist: I am this close to kicking the shit out of you.
Gynecologist: You’re a wuss.

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