69

I’m 69 years old today.  I graduated from high school in 1969.  The 69 Camaro is my favorite car. Sixty-nine has always been my favorite number.  In previous articles, I’ve talked about the importance of keeping your inner child alive.  It used to be the mere mention of the number 69 that woke up my inner child.  Now, at 69, I’m not sure why that number was so magical.  My inner child died from CRS and/or the reality of aging.  Either way it sucks.  (Nice play on words).

As you know, I’m not happy with the aging process.  I fear 69 is going to blow (there I go again).   Renee and I are committed to biking daily. I’m starting to eat better although I’m not convinced it will make a difference.  My job search is not going well.  I’m overqualified for most and don’t have the credentials I need as a medical editor for for the Sex magazine I talked about earlier. I stopped at the question, “Tell us about your experience.”  There was no way I was answering that other than to state that I was 69.  For a second, I though that query had resuscitated my inner youth, then it fizzled.

North Carolina is hot!  Covid-19 is driving me crazy.  I want to sit in a restaurant and have a nice meal.  I want to have the neighbors over for a drink and appetizers. I want to go swimming.  I want to go fishing.  The reality is I’m stuck indoors like you and the rest of the world.

Writing about this is like puking; you feel better after the foul stuff comes out.  Maybe I’m wrong.  Maybe 69 will be a good year.  Only time will tell.  It’s 9 am and I have the rest of today to find something to do. Actually, once you are retired, every day becomes the same.  

Hopefully, a vaccine will be available by January and then we will be able to do more.  We’ll see!  Until then, I’ll just have to come up with something to do each day and so will you. Renee, this is my 69 year!

Here’s your song for the day and a joke.

Whatever you look like, marry a man your own age.  As your beauty fades, so will his eyesight.  Phyllis Diller

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GOOD NEWS IF IT’S TRUE

The following is a podcast by Zdogg that is well worth listening to.  It’s so important that he doesn’t even drop the F bomb.  Please watch it to the end.

Hopefully, it’s true! It’s the first good news I’ve heard, and it supports wearing masks, social distancing and handwashing.

His last comment is shockingly true.  Americans are anti-science and pro-conspiracy, and that’s a pity. I also believe it is directly related to the internets ability to make the most outrageous lie into the gospel.

Yesterday, I saw a podcast in which the commentator used two studies to back up his premise that masks were worthless.  While I only saw the summary of the studies, it was apparent the commentator misinterpreted the results.  He claimed the studies showed that masks did not work because there was no statistical difference when wearing a mask.  He sounded like he knew what he was talking about.

In reality, the studies compared cloth masks with standard surgical masks and found no statistical difference between the two masks.  As far as I can tell from the part of the study he broadcasted, the authors did not comment on the overall effectiveness of the mask.

I’ve spent a lifetime interpreting studies, looking for bias and study design errors.  Interpreting data is not easy, yet every Tom, Dick and Harry can now use the internet to claim anything they want to.  Please be cautious when ingesting raw internet material.  It may be sewage.

Here’s today music and a joke.

What’s the square root of 69?

Eight something.

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BROKEN PROMISES

Has anyone ever told you, “Work hard and one day you’ll be rewarded for your hard work?”  I’ve heard it more than once!  My parents and teachers reinforced this mantra repeatedly as I was growing up.  So, I worked hard for 40 years and here I am today.  I’m not convinced that my parents were right.  As a matter of fact, I no longer believe it to be true at all.  I think success is decided by luck!

Emotionally, my family, friends and patients continue to make me a rich man.  Physically, I’m broke!  Today was the fifth day in a row that Renee and I biked and my legs are killing me.  No matter what I do, my health is going to get worse.  Hopefully, exercise will slow the process.  Financially, well, we won’t go there.  Owning two houses is a killer! Retiring too early doesn’t help either.  Spiritually, I’m in a better place.  I no longer blame God.  

I always planned on my house in Long Grove being a major part of my retirement fund.  I didn’t realize that my plans had several glaring problems.  In North Carolina, houses are selling like hotcakes.  Taxes here are relatively low. In Illinois, your real estate taxes are the equivalent of a second mortgage and that, unlike a bank held second mortgage, is one that can never be paid off. The housing market is apparently dead. Yet, in November, Illinois will re-elect the same politicians that have bankrupted the state.  What a pity! 

The second glaring problem I failed to account for are generational differences. Generational differences have always been the norm but I could not possibly have anticipated how strongly the younger generation would feel about having an open floor plan.  Frankly, I think they are nuts.  I liked having the kids playing in the “other” room.  It allowed them to be somewhat independent, yet still under my control.  It allowed Renee and I to have some semi-private time together. Covid-19 has taught us that too much together time is not necessarily good, and an open floor plan is like going back in time to the days of a one room cabin.  Talk about cabin fever.  I’m glad I’ve spent my last winter in Illinois.

There was no way to account for the third problem.  Even Steven King would have problems imagining Covid-19 and its impact on the world. I always told Renee that, at retirement, we would have to do lunch and dinner at Costco.  You can’t beat $1.50 for a hot dog and drink.  Thanks to Covid, we can’t even do that.

Now, I’m not complaining.  I don’t know anyone my age who is totally happy with their circumstances.  As a younger, more optimistic man, I came up with the concept of “Wellthy.”  I, like my parents, stressed that investing in your emotional, physical, spiritual and financial accounts would lead to good health and happiness.

I still believe in “Wellthy” but now believe that luck plays a major part in actually achieving “Wellth.”  Unfortunately, luck is not something you can manufacture.  A few days ago, I asked, “Whose fault is it?”  Today, my answer is it’s no one’s fault. It’s a matter of luck!  Sometimes it seems that if I didn’t have bad luck, I wouldn’t have any luck at all.

I’ve been trying to stay positive but some days it’s impossible.  As I approach my 69thbirthday, I don’t feel very “wellthy.”   It’s time to pick myself up, dust myself off and start all over again. The older I get, the harder it is to start anything new.

“For a long time now, I have tried simply to write the best I can. Sometimes I have good luck and write better than I can.”

Ernest Hemingway

This time around, I’m going to concentrate on writing better than I can.  I know I have a story in me, I just need to find it, and I need your help.  Please send me your best Doc Segal story.  Sometimes I amaze myself as prior patients remind me of my role in their lives.  Email me at ssegal@lztc.com with any story and your permission to publish it. 

Here’s your music and a joke.

Joe wanted to buy a motorbike. He doesn’t have much luck until, one day, he comes across a Harley with a “for sale” sign on it.

The bike seems even better than a new one, although it is 10 years old. It is shiny and in absolute mint condition. He immediately buys it, and asks the seller how he kept it in such great condition for 10 years. “Well, it’s quite simple, really,” says the seller, “whenever the bike is outside and it’s going to rain, rub Vaseline on the chrome. It protects it from the rain.” Saying so, he hands Joe a jar of Vaseline.

That night, his girlfriend, Sandra, invites him over to meet her parents. Naturally, they take the bike there. Just before they enter the house, Sandra stops him and says, “I have to tell you something about my family before we go in. When we eat dinner, we don’t talk. In fact, the first person who says anything during dinner has to do the dishes.”

“No problem,” he says. And in they go. Joe is shocked. Right smack in the middle of the living room is a huge stack of dirty dishes. In the kitchen is another huge stack of dishes. Piled up on the stairs, in the corridor, everywhere he looks, dirty dishes. They sit down to dinner and, sure enough, no one says a word.

As dinner progresses, Joe decides to take advantage of the situation and leans over and kisses Sandra. No one says a word. So he reaches over and fondles her breasts. Still, nobody says a word. So he stands up, grabs her, rips her clothes off, throws her on the table, and fucks her right there, in front of her parents. His girlfriend is a little flustered, her dad is obviously livid, and her mom horrified when he sits back down, but no one says a word.

He looks at her mom. “She’s got a great body,” he thinks. So he grabs the mom, bends her over the dinner table, and has his way with her in every position right there on the dinner table. Now his girlfriend is furious and her dad is boiling, but still, total silence.

All of a sudden there is a loud clap of thunder and it starts to rain. Joe remembers his bike, so he pulls the jar of Vaseline from his pocket. Suddenly the father backs away from the table and shouts, “All right, that’s enough, I’ll do the fucking dishes.”

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A GLASS HALF EMPTY?

Are you a glass half empty person or are you a glass half full person?  Does it really make a difference?  Personally, I see a half a glass of a blended drink.  In my glass, I’ve got the sweetness of my family and friends blended with the bitterness of Parkinson’s and the aging process.

Most people look at life from a more simplistic viewpoint: half empty or half full.  As I drink from my half glass, each gulp provokes a different reaction.  Right now, the drink is bitter.  I’m in one of my off stages, having trouble walking and feeling punk.  I’m sick of this drink but have no choice other than dealing with it.

This am, the crap had settled to the bottom of the glass and the sweet nectar of life was on the top. Renee and I went further and faster on our bike ride.  It felt good.  We went on a healthy walk through the local mall/ghost town and my glasses got fixed.  I even made it back to the car without difficulty.  I was almost normal.  How sweet it is!

Renee and I picked up lunch from a new barbeque restaurant and dined together in our new home.  Unfortunately, something always shakes up the content of the glass and today’s most sour concoction bubbled to the surface.  We had to deal with the damage the movers caused.  If you research movers on the internet, you’ll find horror stories.  Our move does not rise to the level of a horror flick but we lost a refrigerator and one of our favorite pieces of art was damaged.  The mover refuses to take responsibility despite the fact that we bought insurance to cover the move.

Drinking down the mover’s lies left a shitty taste in my mouth.

Before my nap, I called an old friend and enjoyed a lengthy conversation with her.  It was like rinsing out my mouth with strawberry juice. I wish I could fill my glass with people like her but I can’t; I have to share her with others. She lives many miles away.

During my nap, my half a glass, which had emptied a bit since this morning, had filled back up.  I’ve got to find a new Doc and that’s not easy.  My profession has gone to the dogs.  Every doc around here works for a corporation and I really want a private doc who will work for me.  While I was looking for a new doc, a very bitter, bilious fluid flowed into my glass.  I came across an article about Walgreens opening 500 doctors’ offices in their pharmacies. My dislike of Walgreens is well known and this new incestuous relationship between Walgreens and VillageMD makes me want to puke.  The Walgreens of the future will sell you the cigarettes that destroy your lungs in the front of the store, send you to the back to see the doctor whose job is to try to save your lungs by ordering medications which his partner then sells you.  Keeping you alive so you can buy more cigarettes is of paramount importance as is selling you the most profitable prescriptions possible.  But enough of my rant.

No matter what I do, I always seem to have a half glass of a mixture of life’s best and worst nectars.  As I’m wrapping this article up, I get a text message scheduling a showing to sell my house.  My beautiful house that raised my 3 children and many more kids over the years sits empty waiting for a new family to add to its heritage.  My house is full of good memories and sweetness, having been the summer watering hole for many in the neighborhood, no longer is wanted despite all the potential that it still has.

Ultimately, I have to drink down the bitter solution of a lousy real estate market and sell it far below its real value.  So, is my glass half empty or half full?  It’s a quarter full of life’s sweetness and a quarter full of life’s crap and my mood depends on what nectar is sitting on the top at the time I take a drink.  Regardless of how I look at it, I must keep drinking or die, so I’ll drink down whatever I have to in order to live.

My birthday is Sunday.  It seems that the in thing to do this year is to ask your friends to donate to a charity.  Please, assume you are the charity I want you to invest in and buy yourself a present.  Have a good time with your present and think of me while you’re enjoying it.

Here’s your music and jokes for the day.

An old man was wondering if his wife had a hearing problem. So one night, he stood behind her while she was sitting in her lounge chair.

He spoke softly to her, “Honey, can you hear me?” There was no response.

He moved a little closer and said again, “Honey, can you hear me?” Still, there was no response.

Finally he moved right behind her and said, “Honey, can you hear me?”

She replied, “For the third time, Yes!”

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WHOSE FAULT IS IT?

I have Parkinson’s.  Everyone knows it.  They can see the steady deterioration in my ability to walk and function. It’s a shitty disease, slowly robbing me of my independence.  Last week’s bad days are this week’s good days.

What I want to know is whose fault is it?  Shit just doesn’t happen in this world.  Someone always has to take the blame!  So, who did this to me? Is it my father’s fault?  Afterall, it’s his gene I inherited.  Should he have carried the guilt of bringing me into this world of Parkinsonism?  No, maybe my grandfather is to blame.  He died from Parkinson’s also.

As late as the early 80s, docs didn’t think you could inherit Parkinson’s.  A world renowned Parkinson’s specialist at Rush reassured me that, since it was not a genetically transmitted disease, I could stop worrying

about it.  So, if my father and his father had no idea they would pass on this  lousy gene that would eventually destroy me, how can they carry any guilt or blame? THEY CAN’T!

If it’s not my ancestors’ fault, who else could have cursed me?  IS IT MY FAULT?  Obviously, I didn’t choose to be part of my parent’s gene pool. If I could have, I would have chosen the same parents.  Sure, they had their flaws, but they gave me a pretty great life. 

Should I have been in the gym everyday of my adult life? Certainly, exercise helps slow the degradation caused by Parkinson’s.  Should I have followed a different diet?  No, definitely not!  Besides, I’ve been on multiple diets, none of which helps.

That only leaves God to blame. Being a tad bit egocentric as are most docs, I blamed God.  Afterall, I must have been worthy of some personal attention for God to decide that I should be stricken with this disease.  I decided that God was rounding out my education as a MD.  That idea didn’t hold water as the disease removed me from direct patient care.

This must be another reason God chose me to carry this gene.  The only thing that makes sense is I that I’m supposed to write this article.  I’m supposed to tell those people who carry the guilt of having a bad gene that SHIT HAPPENS BEYOND YOUR CONTROL. CARRYING SENSELESS GUILT ONLY HURTS YOU AND THOSE WHO LOVE YOU.  YOU DIDN’T KNOW.

At the time I had my kids, I didn’t know, but I was suspicious.  I pray that one day they don’t start asking the question, “whose fault is it?”

By the way, it’s not God’s fault, either.  

Here’s your music for today.  Here’s the 20 things Parkinson’s patient excel at.

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I’M BORED

Yep, my brain is rotting and most days, I’m bored.  Monday and Tuesday are my best days. Today started at 6:30. Renee and I went for a ride on our new bike. Going downhill was great.  The wind blowing in my face was a new sensation that reminded me of how old I’ve gotten.  I forgot about the joys of riding a bike and gliding effortlessly downhill.

The problem is that, in order to go downhill, you have to first peddle uphill.  My legs started burning almost immediately.  In other words, I’m weak and in shit shape.  With the exception of the time I spent in rehab, it’s been years since I’ve exercised.  Basically, I HATE EXERCISE. I should point out that I live with chronic pain and exercise simply increases it.

Is exercise worth the pain it causes? ABSOLUTELY! So, while my track record is not good, I’m convinced that this time, I’ll stick with it.  First of all, I now have an exercise partner.  Renee is committed and will bike with me daily.  Second is the fact that working to go uphill is rewarded by the thrill of speeding downhill.

It’s going to take weeks to months to build endurance and rehab my leg muscles.  Obviously, I blew it.  Following rehab, I should have exercised regularly and I didn’t.  In the past, I’ve written multiple articles on the “should have, could have, would have” trap that people get stuck in.  I won’t.

Instead, I’ll start from scratch, work through the pain and build my endurance a little at a time.  That still leaves the problem of being bored.  I’ve got 6:30 to 6:45 am covered but what about the rest of the day.  Today was Mackenzie day so the morning was spent playing with Barbie, arts and crafts and blowing bubbles.  While she napped, I went grocery shopping and cleaned the kitchen.  

Mackenzie just left.  Now what? I’ll spend an hour on this article, prepare dinner and then watch bad TV.  Tomorrow is a Hudson day.  At 4 months old, Hudson sleeps, eats and cries.  So, I’ll ride the bike with Renee, write an article and go slowly crazy.

Did I tell you I hate retirement!? Today, I started reading help wanted ads on Indeed.com.  I’ve found the perfect job.  A sex magazine is looking for a writer with a research background (in sex ed, sex meds, sex research).  I have to update my resume and wonder if I can use Renee as a recommendation as she is best acquainted with my expertise in the bedroom.  Unfortunately, I don’t know if her recommendation will suffice but I’m willing to put in some extra time in the sack polishing my credentials. Personally, I think I’m an expert on the topic of sex.  My expert opinion is that frequent sex alleviates boredom.  Now that’s an excellent idea for a research project.  I suspect that I’ll have no problem signing up males but finding female subjects is likely to be impossible. 

Now that I think about it, if I count sex as exercise, I don’t hate all exercise. Renee let’s workout some more!  No, not on the bike, that’s our morning routine.  I’m working on an evening routine.  What? No, I’m not crazy but I am I’m recruiting subjects for a new experiment.  Want to sign up?

Seriously, what I’m looking for is ideas.  Since retirement, how do you fill your days?  I look forward to hearing from you. In the meantime, I think I’ll take a nap, then work on my resume.

Here’s your music and a joke.  

After a long night of making love, the guy notices a photo of another man, on the woman’s nightstand by the bed…

He begins to worry.

“Is this your husband?” he nervously asks.

“No, silly,” she replies, snuggling up to him.

“Your boyfriend, then?” he continues.

“No, not at all,” she says, nibbling away at his ear.

“Is it your dad or your brother?” he inquires, hoping to be reassured.

“No, no, no! You are so hot when you’re jealous!” she answers.

“Well, who in the hell is he, then?” he demands.

She whispers in his ear, “That’s me before the surgery.”

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PHARMA

I used to work for Pharma.  As a matter of fact, I was in love with Pharma.  Research on new medications was exciting.  Jack and I participated in close to 30 clinical trials, went to national investigator conferences and met some of the greatest minds in the country.  For many years, being a research site meant staying on the leading edge of medicine.

Then the government upped its game.  Research on patients always meant lots of paperwork and government supervision.  Often, patients had to sign a 50 page legal document prior to starting a study; and then, every 6-12 months, there would be revisions that needed new signatures.  Six to twelve-month revisions started coming every 4-6 months then every 3 months and became longer and more confusing. Eventually my patients and I refused future projects, putting an end to one of the most exciting aspects of practicing medicine.

As a clinical investigator, I often taught physicians and pharmacists about new classes of medications and new treatment protocols.  I loved teaching more than I loved research and I continued to teach for years after giving up on research.  Once again, the government stepped up its game and mandated the content of what I was allowed to teach.  No longer could I interact with my students, sharing my ideas and answering their questions based on my experience. 

Typically, I would be given a slide kit and told to read it verbatim.  The government’s goal was to eliminate bias so I would divide my stage into two sections with red tape and, on one side of the tape I would be Dr Segal representing Pharma and following government rules, and on the other side I’d be Doc Segal, discussing my opinions and experience.  It was actually a great approach; NOT (according to the government)!

Government rules were not taken lightly. Sometimes, the government placed monitors in the classroom.  After my last lecture the monitor approached/attacked me:

Monitor – You failed to read the slides to the docs in the room.  You offered your experience in answering questions instead of referring questions to the company science officer as required by government guidelines.  I’m going to write you up and there may be consequences.

Me- My audience are all senior level physicians.  They know how to read slides and interpret data.  I’m not going to insult them by reading to them.  I’m here to teach, not as a stooge, representing Pharma or the government. 

Monitor – You can’t do that!

Me – I thought FU but instead, quit!  

I miss teaching but, as it turns out, I got out just in time.  The press depicts docs who teach on behalf of Pharma as whores and charlatans. Pharma is no longer your friend or mine.  Pharma is big business and is out of control.  Part of the problem is the expense of dealing with the ever-increasing complexities of government oversight.   Part of the problem is the involvement of third-party pharmacy benefit managers.  I believe part of the problem is also greed.

Being a chronically ill, retired patient on multiple medications has taught me how ungodly expensive medications can be.  I’m on ancient medications that still cost a fortune.  I don’t know what the ultimate solution is, but I know one thing you should always do: use GoodRxbefore you pick your medications up from the pharmacy.

There are several discount/coupon pharmacies online. GoodRX is my favorite.  In Illinois, my Mariano’s pharmacist automatically compared the GoodRx price to the insurance covered price and to the Kroger price.  He always saved me money.  In NC, the pharmacist simply charged me what the insurer said I owed.  When I pointed out that GoodRx was cheaper, he made an adjustment and I saved myself a little money.

While I have no solution to Pharma and our ineffective governmental regulations, at least I have a partial solution to the cost of medication.

The TV is playing in the background as I write this.  Renee is getting her morning dose of news. In the last 45 minutes, I’ve heard 5 commercials for medications.  I’ve cringed five times.  Why not prohibit Pharma’s TV advertisements and reallocate the money saved in order to lessen the cost of their medications?

I hate PHARMA’s commercials. That’s a topic for another day.  

Here’s your music video for the day.

Here’s your joke:

A Pollak was suffering from constipation, so his doctor
prescribed suppositories. A week later the Pole complained to the doctor that they didn’t produce the desired results. 
“Have you been taking them regularly?” the doctor asked. 
“What do you think I’ve been doing,” the Pole said, “Shoving them up my ass?”

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VISUALIZATION

Yesterday’s article was written for a dear friend who has a major prick as a neighbor.  I had decided not to publish it after Renee, my wife and editor, told me she thought it was good, but not up to my usual standards.  I thought about what to do with it and realized that what I was really trying to accomplish was teach my friend how to negate her neighbor’s venomous attacks by visualizing him as a sad, deficient, comical a-whole.

In deciding what to do with the article, I realized that many of us either had been plagued by a major prick in our lives or currently were dealing with one.  That thought made me LOL as I thought about Leighton, a major prick I dealt with for 3 years, and visualized him with SDS(I think he had it!).  I wish someone had taught me how visualization could be a powerful, positive force in my life.  That thought reminded me that visualization could not only be a positive force for good, but a negative force as well.

Time for a true story.  Joe was a sixtyish man with a resolving pneumonia. He had been hospitalized for 3 days and, when I saw him in the evening of the 3rd day, was doing well enough to go home in the morning.  I told him that, if all was well in the am, his wife could pick him up around eleven.  

At 8 am, I received a call from Joe’s nurse telling me that Joe was dying, his vital signs were crashing, and she wanted to move him to the ICU.  I told the nurse that I had seen him the night before, that everything was fine and that I intended to send him home today.  She reassured me that she had the right patient and Joe was transferred to the ICU.

I quickly left the office and was at bedside 20 minutes later.  I reviewed his medical records, history, exam, lab and x-ray all of which were perfectly normal.  Even though Joe had no reason to die, he was actively dying.

Me- “Joe, you are dying, and I can’t find a single problem or reason for what’s going on.  I’m calling in an Intensivist for a second opinion.”

Joe – “Last night you told me I was dying from a cancer and that there was no hope.”

Me- “You’re confused.  I told you everything looked good and you would probably go home in the am.”

Nurse- “In morning report they told me you would be going home today.  I was shocked to see you crashing!”

Joe – “I’m sure you told me I was dying.  I slept poorly all night, thinking about dying.”

Me- “Joe, you must have had a bad dream.  Either you can believe your dream and you’ll be dead this afternoon or you can get out of bed, eat breakfast, walk around and go home in the am!” 

Joe got up and went home the next day.  In Joe’s case, he saw himself dying; and, in response to that visualization, he almost died.  (I know it sounds unbelievable; but, in 40 years of practice, I had a lot of unbelievable things happen to my patients.)

So, practice using visualization as a tool for good.  The next time you hear a journalist preaching doom and gloom on the evening news, visualize a different outcome.  Visualize yourself as living a healthy and happy life.  The next time a prick crosses your path, visualize a poor a-whole with SDS, laugh and walk away.

The one thing you have to promise not to do is visualize a scenario like Joe did, and let your mind kill you.

Here’s your music for today.  Renee and I bought a bicycle built for two yesterday and start our exercise regiment today.  Here’s your joke:

A tandem rider is stopped by a police car.

“What’ve I done, officer?” asks the rider.

“Perhaps you didn’t notice, sir, but your wife fell off your bike half a mile back . . .”

“Oh, thank God for that,” says the rider – “I thought I’d gone deaf!”

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SPS

Do you know a big prick?  Does he hassle you? Insult you? Harass you?  Does he make you feel bad?  DOES HE MAKE YOU ANGRY?  While I know it’s hard, I want you to forgive him.  He may have a “Small Penis Syndrome” and his nasty behavior may be overcompensating for having been born just a little, or a lot, short down there.  Yes, it’s a real disorder and the hyperlink will take you to an article on SPS.

If you know someone who fits this description, try giving him the following letter.  Of course, you may be poking at a hornet’s nest.  Rather than getting stung or riling up a real psycho, perhaps it’s best just to read this article and laugh a little, lightening your mood.  The next time the schmuck attacks you, understand his affliction and laugh to yourself as you turn and walk away.

CONGRATULATIONS!

You have been nominated to the Little Dick Society of Northern Illinois (LDSNI) by many of your neighbors.  In nominating you for this not so prestigious award, your neighbors unanimously agree that you are a big prick.  One neighbor actually honored you with the title of “Major Schmuck.”

In reviewing your credentials and behavior, the board of directors unanimously agreed to offer you immediate induction into LDSNI.  You should feel truly honored as only the biggest pricks get offered immediate membership in LDSNI.

We, the members of LDSNI, truly realize how difficult it is to live with a tiny dick, assuming it is a penis and not just a very large clitoris.  It is our goal to help all persons born with tiny penises deal with their affliction on an emotional level.  It is not unusual for men, if that truly is what you are, who have tiny dicks, to ridicule others who have scars or afflictions.  By doing so, the little prick elevates his own internal status to that of a big prick and feels better.

In other words, by calling someone ugly, the little prick feels less deformed and therefore takes solace by becoming a really big prick in comparison to the person he is verbally abusing.  Many of our members were first inducted into LDSNI for this very reason.

As President, I want to assure you that having a micropenis is nothing to be ashamed of and, with years of psychologic counseling (or surgery), you can be normal.  I, myself, have not been a prick in 10 hours, which is a record for me.  While your neighbors are aware of your affliction, they really wouldn’t care if you would just stop being nasty to others and get comfortable with the idea that, in being recognized for this award, you no longer need to be a schmuck, ridiculing others.  Rather than yelling “you are ugly,” you can proudly say, “I’m recognized nationally as a major prick.”  Take pride in who you are rather than belittling others.

If I can be of further assistance, feel free to call me at SUC-KMY-DICK.  Of course, we will notify your local news media, informing them of your affliction and your new status as a member of LDSNI.

The President

Little Dick Society

Washington, D.C.

I feel I must reiterate that I do not recommend sharing this article with the prick who is currently bothering you as poking at him could bring out the worst in him.   This article is simply a tool that you can use in answering the question, “Why won’t he leave me alone?”  My hope is that by envisioning his tiny dick, you will be able to ignore whatever is spewing from his mouth and walk away laughing.

Here’s your music for the day.  Here’s your joke.

I was with my blind friend, and he’s telling me “Yeah I can read braille”. So I hand him a Lego brick and ask him to read it. Apparently, Lego has been hiding a dark secret from us for years; as all their bricks read “Screw you, asshole”

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HI, JOE NAMATH HERE

I don’t know about you; but, if I was worth $18,000,000 I wouldn’t be whoring on national TV selling garbage to the elderly.  Yep, I’m sick of hearing, “Hi, Joe Namath here.”  Joe, yarding on his fame playing football, goes on to tell you that Medicare has authorized new “free” benefits including phone medicine, home meals, hearing aids and a host of other goodies.  

Ever hear someone say, ” It’s too good to be true?”  First of all, Medicare Advantage is not free.  Even if it was free, I would advise you not to switch to an Advantage policy.  A little story should help clarify why. As a physician, I hate this product (and believe that it is a scam).

In my last years as a physician, I worked for a hospital-owned organization.  As a private practitioner, I refused to participate in Medicare Advantage.  As an employed physician, I participated in whichever policy my employer 

contracted with.  

My first patient with a Medicare Advantage policy was a wreck.  Of interest, she worked in the insurance industry for years.  I was shocked that anyone who worked with insurance companies would have an Advantage policy. As it turned out, my patient needed multiple referrals to specialists for multiple serious medical issues.  Since she was told that everything was covered and free on her new policy, she waited until she reached Medicare age to take care of her medical issues.

Her first big shocker came when I explained that I would write the referrals but that each referral had to be approved by her insurance company and getting approvals was by no means a slam dunk.  On her first visit, I wrote six referrals, two of which were urgent as her delaying being seen was taking a toll on her.

Her second shock came three weeks later when I still hadn’t received approval for five of her referrals and a denial on one.  After fighting with her insurer, I finally got approval for the previous denial but the physician she was authorized to see was 25 miles away.  Needless to say, my patient was unhappy.  Unfortunately, she took it out on my staff and I! 

To make a long, complicated story shorter, I’ll cut to the end.  It took 6 months of paperwork, phone calls and being blamed for my patient’s insurer’s rules to get my patient set up to see the specialist she needed to see.  What a pity!  I don’t know how much her Advantage policy cost her but I do know what it would have cost me had I been a private practice physician (a lot of money and frustration).

Let’s assume that everything Joe says is true.  Let’s even assume it’s free.  Is it worth it?  A six-month delay in care can be critical. Seeing a specialist your insurance company sends you to rather than seeing a specialist that your physician refers to may further compromise you.

So, when good old Joe, a retired quarterback, uses his fame to endorse a product that’s “free” or when Tom Selleck ($45,000,000 net worth) sells you on a reverse mortgage, ask, yourself one question; are they being paid to make a pitch?  Then, listen to what they say.  If you listen closely, what they tell you usually doesn’t make sense.

Tom (he’s so warm and caring in the commercial I feel I know him) states, “This isn’t my first rodeo.”  My first question is what the hell does that have to do with a reverse mortgage?   My second question is does Tom have a reverse mortgage?  

When answering those questions, it dawned on me that, since I’ve never been in a rodeo, I must not need or qualify for a reverse mortgage. Backing up my decision not to get a reverse mortgage, is the fact that I’m not worth $85,000,000 so I won’t worry about getting a reverse mortgage until I am a multimillionaire.  Then maybe I’ll understand how a reverse mortgage is a good deal (there are a lot of horror stories on the internet about reverse mortgages).

OK, my rant is over. I feel better. Oh crap, Joe’s on again.  Renee, turn that crap off. Do you want to play rodeo?  I’ll be the cowboy and you’ll be the wild filly.

Here’s your song and joke for the day.

The Jew boasts about his fertility

“I have 4 sons; one more and I’ll have a basketball team!”

“That’s nothing,” says the Catholic, “I have 10 sons! I almost have a football team!”

The Jew and Catholic looked expectantly at the Mormon. “Well?”

“I have 17 wives. I almost have a golf course!”

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