He's a Standup Doctor

 

Doctor H. Youngman

I went to the knee doctor yesterday. My left knee has been bothering me for nearly a year, and summertime in the yard has made me more aware that it hurts. Over along the fence I planted a bunch of marigolds. Noticing that the marigolds were in competition with the weeds, I decided it was time to rip the evil weeds out by the roots. I moved along the row of marigolds, stooping over and pulling out each intruder. As I stooped, I kept hearing a popping, snapping, and cracking noise punctuated by pain in my knee. Had I been attacked by the Rice Krispies mascots? I assume they're just about knee high. No, it was my left knee welcoming me to life after the age of seventy.

I used to wonder why old people spend so much time at the doctor's office. I don't wonder that anymore. It's because it gives us a reason to leave the house... oh, and because our bodies are falling apart. About nine months ago I went to a knee doctor who prescribed physical therapy. I still do the exercises, but that can only do so much. So I wanted to look at another option, but not with the same doctor. I found a doctor that got good reviews and to my good fortune, was only a block away from my house. I actually walked over there for my appointment.

Let me start out by saying that I like the doctor. What surprised me was how fast he talked. I mean, really fast. Before I could answer a question, he was already on to the next one. I assumed he wasn't even paying attention to me. Anyway, at some point I heard the word 'Cortisone'. He was going to stick a needle in my knee and pump Cortisone in there. Before I knew it, it was done.

"Oops, looks like we've got a gusher here. Must have hit a vein."

I looked down and sure enough there was blood. My blood. A large pad was taped to the point of the blood flowing out of my knee, and the doctor told me to have a seat for five minutes. He'd be right back. Five minutes later he was back and put a Band-Aid on my knee. while he was doing that he started telling jokes.

"What does it mean when you find a horseshoe in Ireland? Some poor horse is going barefoot."

"What do you call a fake Irish stone? A shamrock."

He kept telling me jokes, at least five or six in a row. All of them with an ethnic slant. I looked at the nurse and the aide. I could swear I caught them rolling their eyes. Maybe I was just projecting, but I know they weren't laughing. I was only politely laughing. You know, just a little 'ha, ha' after each joke. Finally the doctor got up and left the room. I looked at the nurse's aide who stayed behind, and joked "I hear he'll be performing here all week."

I swear I saw her roll her eyes.