Your Prescription Is Ready

So, if you read the last installment on my incredibly exciting blog, you may have gathered that I help out some at my family's medical clinic. Like any job, it has its positives and negatives, benefits and annoyances, things to love and things to hate. However, working in the medical field has given me a sense of greater responsibility because of how direct the correlation is between what we do and the life of our patients. Another difference I have noticed in my current employment is how intimate a look we get into our patient's lives.

With that said, let me tell you about an annoyance at the job that is not particular to working in a medical clinic or hospital. Douchebag guys. They're everywhere. And since a theme I'm going with is medicine, I'll make the analogy that douchebag guys are like a case of herpes that goes untreated. Only, you can't take a pill or apply a cream to make douchebags disappear for a few months. So, I suppose they're more like a super-strain of incurable, painfully irritating, incredibly stupid herpes, complete with itching, burning sensations and sores.

I am well aware that simply living life amongst other human beings makes it nearly impossible to avoid jackasses. From a classroom, to the grocery store, to the book store, to your job, there's going to be at least one or two guys that think they're so good-looking and charming that every woman within a ten foot radius of them falls instantly in love. The reality of it is, no one buys the act, and the only thing that happens to people within a mile radius of the douchebag are coughing fits and a struggle to breathe because of an impenetrable cloud of cologne vapor that most of these gentlemen decide to apply every other hour. However, as irritating as this type of guy normally is, they can be a huge source of entertainment if the circumstances are just right.

I was lucky enough to find myself in such a situation not too long ago.

Because this could potentially be seen as a huge breach of patient/clinic trust, I'll change the subject's name for the sake of privacy. So, let's continue under the assumption that his name is Douchebag de la Douche (DdlD for short).

Anyhow, Douchebag de la Douche was a new patient to our clinic. From the moment he walked in and opened his mouth, my patented Douche-dar-5000 (c) was tripped and alarms started to go off. First off, he was wearing designer jeans that probably cost over a hundred dollars, yet looked as if he found them in a dumpster. Who in their right mind would buy pants that are ripped to shreds and have paint spattered all over them and look eternally dirty, let alone pay as much money as DdlD paid? And what douchebag outfit would be complete without a pair of sunglasses worn around the forehead? I suppose the sunglasses were worn that way in order to frame the smug look on his face properly.

But, the clothes would be nothing without action, right? Well, this guy could have been dressed up as a Buddhist monk and his douche-osity would still shine through. As I previously mentioned, douchebags are easily identified by their delusions of charm and ability to deal with and manipulate other people. Douchebag de la Douche was a prime example of this characteristic as he thought that his powers of persuasion would even be effective on me. ME! Ridiculous. So, being amused at his attempts to win me over by insincerely talking me up about USC football after spotting that I was wearing a USC hat, I played along with his bullshit. Knowing that he'd eventually tell me some story about how he could score me some tickets for some games next season, I glanced at my watch to see how long it would take for DdlD to move in for the kill.

Twenty-two seconds. Twenty-two seconds and I was being offered primo seats at the Coliseum to watch a USC football game next season. It took every shred of self-restraint in my being to keep from pissing my pants with laughter. I couldn't help myself, so I told him to write his number down and that I'd call him once the season came around. The number is stored away somewhere in my room for the day I can think of a good enough prank [suggestions welcome].

Having had enough, I left to take care of some work. Later in the day, I was completely unsurprised to find that the moment I left, Mr. Slick turned his smooth moves on the two girls who also work at the clinic. From what I understand, he tried his damnedest to get both to go to dinner with him sometime. No time wasted asking names or going for a phone number. Just straight to the point, and with as wide a net as possible. Incredible. Simply incredible.

Well, let's fast forward a week or so. Douchebag de la Douche had to come back to the clinic to redo a lab test because the last time he took it, he drank a six pack of beer at 6AM before coming in to have his blood drawn. Most people would drop any ill feelings for him after hearing that, figuring that deep down inside he's a miserable person and tries to compensate for his problems with an exaggerated confidence and delusions of redeemable qualities. But, not me. Oh, no. Not by a long shot. Is it because I'm a sick individual? More than likely. But, after having seen and dealt with this type of guy as much as I have, I take time to enjoy every bit of bad luck and misfortune that I witness befall douchebags.

Call me a twisted jerk if you will, but you can't deny that this stuff is funny. And if you still disagree, just give me another minute.

So, let's do another fast forward, but this time a couple of weeks. Douchebag de la Douche has returned yet again, this time to get the results from his blood test and also for a question he needed to ask. The examination/result giving is over, and he returns to the waiting room to await what I thought was just a work excuse. But instead, I am handed a prescription to give to him. I looked down and took a glance at what medication he requested. Did he have a cough? Maybe some trouble sleeping? Perhaps he needed antibiotics to fight off the flu?

Oh. Oh my. This isn't for any of those things. Oh my.

I opened the door to the waiting room and called out, "Mr. de la Douche, your prescription is ready."

And as he stood up and walked towards me to take the script, I tried to make eye contact, but he had a look of shame plastered across his face and wouldn't look up at me. I handed him the prescription, and it took every bit of decency left in me (and there's not much left) not to yell out after him, "Good luck! Don't worry! That medication is great and should clear your genital warts right up!"

I don't care if this makes me seem like an awful person. You have to admit; that shit is funny.

Why I Will Not Pursue A Career In Medicine

For those of you who know me, you are more than likely aware of the fact that I'm not sure about what I want to do with my life as far as careers go. I'm one of the many young adult (or old children, depending on how you look at it) that are going through the proverbial search for oneself and the path in life that will ultimately lead to some sort of meaning and fulfilment. Unfortunately, I have yet to see the light and am still in limbo as to where I would like to focus my efforts and energy. However, I do know what I don't want to do. So, although I don't know what I want to do, I'm steadily whittling the list down through a process of elimination.


My mother is a doctor and owns/operates her own medical clinic. I've been very lucky to be able to see firsthand what it takes to become and maintain a career as a medical doctor. Being a foreign medical graduate--she was already a practicing physician in the Philippines before my family decided to move to the United States--my mother took a different route than one that I would take, were I to go through medical school. However, I would still have to go through the same headaches and troubles that she puts up with in her practice. I also question the dedication I would be able to put in for a career in medicine. I couldn't see going through incredible amounts of school and training for something that I did not have a passion for. Every so often, something happens that makes me re-examine the possibility of following in my mother's footsteps and I go through the process of wondering if maybe this is my calling. I do have a deep appreciation for what (most) doctors do. To dedicate ones life to the health and well-being of others is as honorable and admirable as anything a person can choose to do with their time in this life. And even if it means putting your brain into a blender and going through rigorous schooling and subsequent training, and working yourself to exhaustion day in and day out, it all seems worth it when you think of all the lives you can truly touch and change for the better.


And right as I felt like I reached an epiphany, my mother's medical assistant walked into the room.

"Doctor, Mr. Lopez is here for an anus check."



And in a flash of light, the first epiphany was stomped to death by a second epiphany.


Oh yeah. That's why I decided not to become a doctor. Because if I ever heard someone say that to me, my reply would most definitely be, "Fuck that. Mr. Lopez can check his own anus. Here, he can even borrow my equipment. It's almost lunchtime, are you crazy? Tell him to take himself and his anus to another doctor. And while you're at it, put up a sign in the lobby that says that I reserve the right to refuse services that include checking gross shit. Thanks. Hold my calls, I'm off to lunch."