Hypothetically Speaking . . .

. . . . . . . . Because Humor Matters

Four of My Five Shrinks Agree

Written By: Michael Rochelle - Sep• 08•19

Just a routine medical oil change.

So, I was minding my own business the other day, wondering how I could solve world peace while also appearing on the next season of The Bachelor when it hit me: I had 99 problems and stress was one. Right then and there, I started rubbing my neck with Ben Gay and Robitussin. Why Robitussin, you ask? My momma said it works for everything. You all may not know this, but I lost an elbow back in the day. Thanks to Robitussin, it grew back.

It’s not exactly my fault that I’m stressed. There are tons of things in this world to be concerned about. I mean, how am I supposed to handle the final seasons of Jane the Virgin or Orange Is the New Black? More importantly, will I earn enough tips as a stripper to allow me to upgrade my iPhone in a few weeks? Based on the three nickels I earned last night, things aren’t looking too good.

Fortunately, my team of shrinks works diligently to help keep my stress in check. They advised that although I am already often confused for Denzel Washington and Ryan Gosling depending on the lighting, maybe I could switch up my daily routine. The team captain of my shrinks recommended that I do at least two pushups every week like The Rock does. Maybe having a bicep and a set of six-pack abs would solve my stress dilemma. The Rock, or Dwayne as I like to call him, never seems stressed. It’s probably the pushups.

Before I go down the rabbit hole, let me explain. I didn’t just wake up one day and decide I was stressed. That would be crazy. Who does that on their own? Of course, I asked someone to check my pulse and my blood pressure first. Clearly, that was the right thing to do. Since I happened to be in the middle of downtown DC at the time, I utilized my resources and recruited the nearest person I saw to take my vitals.

That particular day, the first person I saw was a panhandler. He said his name was Carlos. Since I don’t discriminate, I asked him for his credentials. Usually, I’ll accept a driver’s license or some form of Lyft or Uber certification before I allow random individuals to perform medical procedures on me on the street, but once the guy showed me a Bed Bath & Beyond membership card that allowed him to practice in any local Ikea or the automotive section of Target, I knew I was in good hands.

Just to be sure, I asked one of Carlos’ panhandler friends for a second opinion and a letter of recommendation. The friend informed me that Carlos had just removed his appendix the day before, so I should be ok. At first, he was a little bothered that Carlos hadn’t asked his permission before removing his appendix, but since he was down 10 pounds after the procedure, which helped him make his goal weight, he was ultimately fine with it.

Because I’m a responsible person, I made sure Panhandler Carlos had all the proper utensils needed to render the medical services. I mean, I didn’t need any accidents happening that would cause me not to live through the rest of the week. As it turns out, the only items he was missing was a wrench and a Phillips screwdriver. Fortunately, I just so happened to have had those items in my back pocket, so I didn’t hold it again him. A wise person once said that it takes a village to raise a child. In my case, it took some spare mechanic tools to have my spleen checked for inflammation.

After he sterilized his hands with some leftover Sprite from a nearby trash can, he got down to business. I was ecstatic that there wasn’t at least a brief wait and that he didn’t usher me to a waiting room first. Instead, he had me sit there beside him on the curb for a few minutes while he completed the paperwork. Because I was relatively close to his “Seeking Human Kindness” sign, I made $3.05 while sitting there. I thanked my manager for her donation and told her I would see her at work after my examination was done. She gave me a look that let me know we’d have to talk about this later.

Within a matter of moments, Panhandler Carlos was ready to proceed. Since he was a professional, I didn’t want to impede on his time. He probably had a full day of examinations planned. It wasn’t my place to block his blessing and get him too off schedule. After all, I was a walk-in.

Without hesitation, he began the exam. I was a little thrown off by his use of a chicken nugget as a stethoscope, but I shook it off. Stethoscopes are expensive. It was very resourceful of him to find a workaround. Moments later, my concerns grew even more when he used an old Coke bottle to check my temperature. However, as an American citizen, I did my part for the sake of science and just let it happen. After all, I needed my results.

Thirty minutes later, after Carlos demanded that we exchange clothing—which was not listed in the paperwork I signed, he gave me his findings. It was completely normal for a female my age to experience the symptoms I had. When I explained that I was a male, Carlos was shocked and demanded proof. Because this is a G-rated blog, I won’t go into details of what this entailed, but I let him do what had to be done after he promised not to get my insurance involved or to charge me an additional copay. After his investigation, he still wasn’t 100% sure. However, I handed him a dollar and he quickly checked the box for “male” on my chart. I was pleased with how progressive he was. Then again, it is 2019.

With the whole male/female fiasco settled, he explained that, although my vitals were fine for a woman, they weren’t so great for a man. If I didn’t seek help for my stress immediately, he said I had about five minutes to live. Apparently, Panhandler Carlos was very disturbed by what he’d picked up from the chicken nugget. Although I’m not a medical professional, he showed me the poultry and it confirmed how dire my situation was. I needed a miracle.

So, my friends, I share all of this with you in hopes that you, too, pay attention to whatever is going on with your body and get it taken care of. If your knees make creaking noises at night, that may be completely normal. However, if you find that you one day can’t twerk on demand, then you may have a problem. Fortunately, I know a guy who can help you with that. When you see him, could you please let him know that he still has my screwdriver?

Michael Rochelle
Humor blog: www.humormike.com
Facebook: michael.rochelle1
Instagram: humor_mike_
Twitter: @mikeyllo

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