Thomas Wictor

Today I said goodbye to my doctor of ten years. He’s being forced into retirement by Obamacare. Since the new regulations were written by bureaucrats instead of doctors, we can look forward to more such retirements beginning next year. I hate change, but I hate useless, fucked-up, ugly people even more. It’s time to cull the herd. I know you agree with me. It’s okay; you don’t have to say it. I’ll say it for you.

As I was saying goodbye to my doctor’s office manager—a mother of two who will be out of a job on June 30—a woman wearing those disgusting, Martian, fitover box-sunglasses came to the window.

“Yeah, hello!” she shouted.

“How may I help you?” the office manager said.

The woman held up her hand to cut off the office manager. “Okay. Yeah. Right. I’m here for my sister’s, um, uh, um… Her instructions.”

Your sister’s instructions?

1. With the tip mandrel in place, inject saline into your sister through the proximal fitting at the end of her housing assembly. Flush until fluid is observed exiting from the distal end of your sister’s outer jacket. Hold the distal tip of your sister’s delivery system as in Figure 2. DO NOT HOLD YOUR SISTER.

2. Gently twist and pull to remove your sister’s tip mandrel. If her tip mandrel is not easily removed, do not use her.

3. Continue flushing until fluid is observed exiting at the distal portion of your sister’s tip.

4. Keep your sister lying flat to avoid kinking her shaft.

“Her prescription?” the office manager asked.

“Yeah! That’s it!”

She gave her sister’s name, and when the office manager handed over the prescription, the woman said, “Is there a nurse on duty?”

“I’m a medical assistant. How can I help you?”

“Well, my sister’s supposed to have a blood test, BUT I DON’T KNOW WHERE TO GO! WHAT-WHAT-WHAT— HOW— WHO—?”

She was a belligerent lunatic who’d lived alone with her sick sister for so long that she was like an ape. I had to leave before I screamed at her to shape up. Solitude is no excuse for being a monstrosity.

At home I turned on the radio just in time to hear about a little girl asked to leave a Kentucky Fried Chicken joint because her disfigured face upset the other customers. She’s three-year-old Victoria Wilcher, who was torn apart by her grandfather’s three pit bulls.

I’m not a dog person anyway, but I have a deep hostility toward pit bulls. I’ve had to fight off several because all my dumb, fat, loud neighbors have them to try and make up for their own impotence. Our Samoyed was attacked by them, our cat Syd the First was attacked by them, my brother Tim has been attacked by them, and I’ve been attacked by them. Tim now has a taser he takes on his walks, and I had an oaken staff. I used it to crack pit-bull skulls on occasion.

Since Dad is gone and the neighbors who owned the pit bull in question are gone, I can reveal that he discouraged one when it attacked him. You wouldn’t believe what he used to render it peaceful. I didn’t believe it myself when he told me, but now I do.

I was glad to see that Victoria Wilcher’s grandfather and his girlfriend were arrested, and the three pit bulls were killed. I wish the other customers in the KFC had been arrested too, for terminal assholism. Who would complain to a fast-food employee that a three-year-old’s face was bothering them so much that they couldn’t gobble their greasy, salty swill?

Victoria’s life is probably over. The “people” responsible for protecting her seem completely out of their depth, so I don’t see that she’ll get the help she needs.

What nobody—especially our society—needs are the comments that went along with that article.

George Peterson. An aging teenager who thinks he’s clever.

“Attacted”? He wrote it three times, so it’s not a typo. This is what our culture is producing. People who can’t spell, who don’t know the rules of basic grammar, and who think being cruel to injured children is funny.

And what’s he satirizing? Does his blather make any sense on any level? They asked her to leave because maybe they thought she was “attacted” by chickens? And you can bet that George pronounces it “attacted.”

“Them dogs attacted that girl. They sure did! M-O-O-N. That spells ‘attacted’!”

Imagine this: Someone is married to George Peterson. I have no doubt. Some pig-woman has sex with him.

A battle of wits! A nightmarish, misshapen subhuman who stinks of sweat and unwashed genitals versus George Peterson, who can’t spell “fowl” and blurts non sequiturs that a third grader would find stupid.

I was just kidding, George. It would be a terrible shame if someone wrecked their car relieving you of your worthless existence.

Ten more minutes and then I can take my meds and go to sleep.

You and a lot of other people are fortunate, George. More fortunate than you’ll ever appreciate. Geography is your salvation.

Even though I’ve worked hard on improving myself, I’m my father’s son.

Keep that in mind.