Spent part of Thursday morning at Starbuck’s with Lew P. While he is ok company, he acts like he knows me from the inside out. I met him a short while ago, not more than two years. It’s not like he created me, is it? Some guys, huh?
DOE’s, Doctors of Everything, they know it all, you have to foul them up to keep them on their toes. Slip them a tidbit of information that they don’t know, and make them think. Like Biden’s brain surgery. He had an aneurysm. People forget that fact, and it explains a lot about the Vice-President. He’s brain damaged, for real.
His neurosurgery must have been computer-guided to be performed in such a confined and miniscule space. Biden’s brainpan, he’s a size three hat. Know what I mean.
Another American medical innovation, the surgeon used an electron microscope for neurosurgery, an advance way beyond stereotactic surgery.
I guess you can tell Dr. Muttnick plays for the elephants, a Republican. Back when I was in private orthopedic practice I worked for peanuts; that’s why most physicians are Republicans. No that is not an Urban Legend, it’s a fact jack.
Or maybe you just let the DOE’s know, you know who they really are. With Lew P it is easy. I asked him if he had been published yet. He hadn’t so what kind of writer can he be? He says an unpublished novelist.
Tink requested that I be diplomatic. He’s an unpublished scribbler, linking events without a theme. He is to writing what Jackson Pollack was to art. Hemingway is Rembrandt, and Lew P. is Pollack. He swears it is different in his novels compared to this blog. From my experience as a character in both settings, it is.
In the novels, I know my dramatic purpose, and so does he, but you never see the author getting shot or having a stroke in the novels. I guess, they reserve that fate for after the novel is published, and the author gets his first royalty check.
Self inflicted wound, or cardiac arrest?
A few lesser lights at the hospital have been published, although in fairness, it was in second-rate medical journals, like The Journal of Irreproducible Facts. They hadn’t published fiction, at least they won’t admit to publishing fiction, medical or otherwise. They call it research. I call it bull droppings, with a dose of imagination.
A self-style savant, Dr. Mack. U. Seow, has written several books on surgical history and also business acumen, but he is gone now. One of his patients popped a question that punctured his ego and he blew up like a balloon. He was never seen on the Jersey shore again. Rumor has it that he moved to New York City where he can re-inflate (read re-invent) himself.
I was in Nam. A whole bunch of writers came out of there. I like the hardboiled works of Michael Connelly, and Robert B. Parker. They write about guys, men who have been there, not physicians who forgot how to shoot straight.
Arthur’s taking me to Sea Girt to practice with the Colt, but until then I’m part of the physicians who can’t shoot straight. I did once, but not now, and it’s a shame. There is nothing to compare with the joy of squeezing off four or five rounds into a target. To remain PC we’re talking bull’s eye targets, not animate, although if the creature from the wild rose bramble would show itself ….
I practiced orthopedics for eighteen years before Lew P even found me. Still, he’s an all right guy, if you go for that kind. Let’s you know whether he likes you or not right out, straightforward.
Still can’t call him a man’s man. Doubt he ever shot a gun, even an air gun. He thinks BB’s are the row after AA. He thinks AA is the row after Z. He’s afraid of a straw and wadded paper spitball, and he doesn’t drink much Murphy’s either. So he doesn’t know his BB from his AA.
Hemingway would chew him up and make Grappa out of him. Or maybe use that damn shotgun on him. Oops there goes my PC right down the tubes.
His sentences are so long, Papa would probably shoot him just for that. Lew P’s two daughters are prettier than anything Earnest produced, as a first or second-generation sire. Smarter too. So we cut Lew P a minor break.
Instead of Murphy’s Stout, I think Lew P. is a wine drinker. Is it wino or whiner? Or is he two wines in one? Like that mint advertisement several years ago. Certs, no he is more ticky-tacky than a cert-ive.
How can wine be a smart drink, it doesn’t have a head. Instead of a head it has a bouquet. No man wants to trade his head for a bouquet, like some debutante.
I know some people who have nothing in their heads. An empty head is better than no head, although, anencephaly, being born without a brain, is immediately fatal, at least in the medical books. Some of the Hollywood celebrities, lately, demonstrated that the textbooks are wrong. The things they do, they couldn’t have functioning brains.
Pour that Murphy’s down the side and it is smarter than most of Hollywood, with a head that stands up for itself. Didn’t Mel Gibson claim that it wasn’t his fault and his head just stood up by itself. He had no control over it on that beach in Costa Rica. It’ll cost him more than a few Rica’s by the time he’s through. Couldn’t happen to a more worthy subject.
Lew P mentioned that his nephew won an Emmy for being a writer on the Daily Show. But he lives on the East Coast so that makes him bright, and not a celebrity. He can write, so that immediately disqualifies him from living near Los Angeles.
Does smog affect brain function?
Writers aren’t celebrities, they are … er … writers and no one knows who they are, unless they go to the Manalapan Headquarters of the Monmouth County Library to hear Lew P’s nephew speak on October 3rd, 2009 at 2 PM.
The boys at the cock’n’bull session all raised a cup of Latte to his achievement. If we weren’t at Starbucks, Mutt might have order a round of Murphys’ for the boys, but they don’t stock that. It would take up the room in the cooler meant for the hard Blueberry Scones and the crummy coffee crumb-cakes.
More importantly, they would need a liquor license, and we don’t need to make Corzine’s Cronies richer. Tax the poor and the rich and give the money to a son of an #itch. We’re trying to maintain that PG rating.
The only problem the state of New Jersey has is that McSpeedy, Corzine (remember his 90 mph accident on his way to the Imus disaster with the Rutgers women’s basketball team) is being challenged by McGreedy, Christie (he loans money to other politicians, charges interest and doesn’t declare it on taxes, while he was the state attorney general? Esquire my ass.) meaning our next governor will have shifty-beady eyes either way.
Tink says, “Absolute dworks toast with decaffeinated Lattes. Not awesome, but bore some.” It’s the thought that counts and not the buzz from the drink. Elliot congratulations and keep up the good work.
Tink also thinks Lew P brings some class to the table, but she wears five earrings in the cartilage of her right ear. I love the Pixie, but class is not the forte of my babe or me. Blue collar and blue jeans, and Blue Moon, the song or the beer, that’s what I am talking about.
The cock ‘n’ bull sessions put things in perspective. Dr. Bowel came by and sat down. Just as Lew P. arrived, Manley Eskwire left. He is a friend of Dr. Bowel and an acquaintance therefore of Lew P. Me, the Mad Mutt, I don’t know him an inch or a mile.
I think he’s a retired poker player who now supports himself by practicing the law. His training was bluffing Dolly Doyle and Crazy Mike, so getting past a judge or a jury is a piece of cake. Maybe he can advise the winner of the Gubernatorial election? They both have a lot of bluffing to do.
All of us know that life needs a laugh along the way, and Lew P sees life with a crooked sense of vision. Manley calls him the Devil’s Advocate, but coming from a lawyer that’s almost sour grapes, which gets us back to wine.
That bottle of Korbel that went missing New Years, I never completed the story. It was found in Jayson’s room and Pam had a kitten, but not Mrs. Leary’s cat, which was keening outside in the bramble most of January first.
Jayson said he liked the label on the champagne bottle. He said it without hiccupping.
Tink took the bottle away, and Svettie made a dogface that meant she knew how Jay got it. So the mystery is solved, but Pam is missing the happy ever after part.
Jay didn’t visit the bathroom much January 1st so I think he got an empty bottle. That’s a good thing, because Svettie is wearing thin on Pam who asked to go to Sea Girt with Arthur and I. She wants to borrow the Colt. Svettie could predict the trajectory of the fired bullet as she is a rocket scientist.
Even Tink thought Svettie, her sister, might have overstayed her welcome. Svettie blasted off to Boston and the Aerospace Engineering Lab at MIT the next day. Why does a rocket scientist need a GPS to find Boston from New Jersey? Another question to which I don’t know the answer.
Back to now. We’re sitting outside of Starbucks on the patio enjoying the late summer heat, 78 degrees, and shooting the cock’n’bull. Not with a gun, with our mouths. You can imagine how much cock’n’bull is chatted when you realize the participants are three old physicians and a poker-playing lawyer.
Sum total four DOE’s without restraints.
Lew P wanted to talk about his Jets and the victory over New England, but since Dr. Bowel is a Giant fan, and Manley would only be interested in football if he could bet it, the conversation died before Mutt could start a J-E-T-S Jets Jets Jets cheer. I guess will have to change the name back to Jets from Jests, since they are doing so well.
Arthur, my FBI friend, continues to talk about the Mets, because his Phillies are doing better than the Philadelphia Beagles.
You think they are the Philadelphia Eagles, no. They are a bunch of dogs. And with Michael Vick as your quarterback he’ll violate parole if he rejoins the team.
The Tennessee Titans came into the Meadowlands like lions, but left as tamed moutons (French for lambs). I had to fumble around for that bad pun.
All hail King Rex. We’re relyin’ on Ryan. Go JETS, and next week NO Saints.
Manley was hot that the poker tournament at Atlantic City was on the weekend of the eve of Yom Kippur. He didn’t want to gamble on the holiest day of the year. That led everyone to believe that the really high rollers aren’t Jewish.
Myer Lansky would turn over in his grave.
Oh almost forgot, the on going saga of the creature from Mutt’s wild rose bramble. Sounds like a 1950’s grade B horror movie.
Lance came back and all three traps were empty. There was no bait and no capture. He probed the hole and it doesn’t go in more than 2 feet, so it is probably not a den or lair. He thinks the creature lives in the rocks that he couldn’t move, because they are too deep in the bramble, and too large.
He also thinks that the traps captured field mice or other small mammals, and they were a buffet for the creature from the wild rose bramble.
We await Lance’s next move, but he thinks that Mrs. Leary’s cat is lucky, because what ever the creature from the wild rose bramble is, it is a carnivore.
I guess if I don’t rescue that gib then my problem with the keening at night will solve itself. Most carnivorous snakes and mammals are nocturnal feeders. If the snake is big enough, it can devour the whole kitty. A wild dog would have a field day.
Something won’t allow me to let that castrato suffer more than he has. He lost his testicles, a eunuch experience. To compensate, he has become too big for his britches. It sounds like a non sequitur, but it is an accurate statement. Think about it.
Using my theory of deflating puffed up DOE’s, I’ll tell him that he’s firing blanks at all his bitches. Then he’ll stop calling attention to himself, like a pimp who has lost all his working girls.
I’m taking up a collection for replacement of my cashmere coat. Crawling in the brambles to rescue the capon, it is getting dirty too frequently. I have to find a solution, and soon.
Black Racer Snake - constrictor carnivore.
I am the Mad Mutt, and you are not, so what do you care.
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