Wednesday, 19 November 2008

A hasty judgement

Today I went to the doctor to have some nodules on my vocal chords photographed. The waiting room was so depressing it changed my mind about Prozac; It made me really need it. I really needed it. Show me a man with a razor at his throat and a noose round his neck, suicide note written, tears of self loathing running down his cheeks and I'll show him my fist as I snatch his Prozac then chuck him down a well, the miserable trainspotter. I needed Prozac; I was in the ENT ward at the hospital watching a subtitled cookery programme being shown to a load of people who'd had their throats ripped out by dogs or lost their larynxes to cancer and their partners were illiterate or short sighted. I was trying not to read the aphorisms of the x list celebrities, but I just kept on catching them: "Joan was distraught about the state of her chutney." or "Lee loves beef," I then realised that every inane comment about an aubergine or whatever was being relayed by the men with no larynx to their illiterate other halves, but they couldn't speak, so hideous, incomprehensible squeeks and bubbling noises would issue from their mouths like Nosferatu reading a cookery book underwater.
I then realized I needed a medieval shield to protect me from the jolly enormous doctor who raped my nose with some sort of military dildo. He thrust it back and forth, taking deep throat pictures until I swear I felt something hot dribbling down the back of my throat. I think his aggressive medi-sex lobotomised my brain, spoiling any chance of prozac working because it would all leak out of the hole he had made, in a blue ooze.
I walked home a traumatised zombie, being followed by suicidal trainspotters licking every morsel of prozac dribbling down my neck. My nostrils were so badly stretched they looked like flared trousers. I had been brutalised. When I arrived home my wife had a stroke with the shock of seeing me, rendering her unable to read or move properly, so we spent the whole evening trying to cook tea for the kids, with me squeeking and bubbling instructions through my flapping nostrils and drooling mouth, and her just groaning and slicing her nipples off.
Tomorrow I will find us both sat in the ENT queue,Bubble and bloody Squeek convincing anyone who looks at us that a high pressure prozac enema is the only solution. And thus the wheel turns full circle.

1 comment:

yamyumyer said...

You've turned into a David Lynch film.