Sunday, April 19, 2015

Fifty Shades of Parody (Chapter 18a)

Talk about being sexist.
     I completely thought Dr. Bombay was a man, what with having read Fifty Shades of Grey Hair and all, but as it turns out she's a woman, and not in that Bruce Jenner kind of way.
     "Do you mind if my son joins us?" she asks before she starts her examination of me.
     "Uh... is he a doctor, too?" I try to clarify.
     "No, he just likes to watch."
     Looking at him, I see he's only ten years old. Waaay too young to be a doctor, unless he went to medical school in a foreign country, like Detroit.
     "When I grow up," the young boy pipes up, "I wanna be Mr. Grey's personal physician!"
     Aw, how sweet.
     "Because you like helping people?" I ask him.
     "Because I like money," he says.
     Well, what can I say about my examination?
     The worst part was when she had me bend over so she could check my prostate, and then leaned over to nibble on my earlobe.
     Why do all doctors do that?
     "Well, doc," I address her, respectfully, after she's removed her finger, "what's the verdict?"
     "You're perfectly fine, Miss Steeele," she tells me.
     "That's 'Steele.'"
     "That's 'Steele.' With three 'e's," I correct her.
     "I did use three 'e's," she retorts, rather retortedly.
     "That's two in the middle and one at the end."
     "You're rather fond of the word 'that,' aren't you? Well, like I said, you're perfectly fine. And I wouldn't worry about how my son threw up when you took off your clothes."
     "I thought he was just being friendly," I say.
     "One thing that Christian wanted me to do," she tells me, "is to make sure you're using proper birth control, but I see that won't be necessary."
     "It won't?"
     "Then what will I use for birth control?"
     "Your face."
     Like a fly on a toilet seat, I get pissed off.
     "Okay," I say.
     She takes out her stethoscope.
     "Big breaths," she tells me.
     "Yeth, doctor," I say. "I'm glad you notithed."
     She takes my wrist in her hand.
     "Excellent," she says, impressed. "Your pulse is as regular as clockwork."
     "That's because your fingers are on my watch," I point out. "The only thing I worry about, doctor, is my breathing. My breath comes out in short pants."
     ""Yes, that might be a problem," she tells me, with concern in her voice, "because they should be coming out of your lungs."
     I was beginning to feel a bit itchy to get back to Christian to begin our night of big sex.
     "Are we almost done, doctor?"
     "Almost. I'll just need a urine sample, a blood sample, and a stool sample from you," she says.
     "No, problem, doctor," I tell her. "I'll come by your office tomorrow and drop off a pair of my underwear."
     "One thing, when you do come in, be ready to stick your tongue out."
     "Because I'm mad at my receptionist."
     "So, I'm in good health?"
     "Unfortunately, yes. I say unfortunately, because of all the conditions that can kill you, good health is the slowest."
     "Oh, my, Is there anything I can do?"
     "Yes, Miss Steele, you can remember that while an apple a day may keep the doctor away... an onion will do the same job for a week. Now, if you'll excuse me, I just need to collect payment for my services from Mr. Grey, and I'll be on my way."
     With that, we exit the room and find Christian laying on a sofa, arm over his eyes, with Napoleon XIV singing "They're Coming To Take Me Away, Ha-Haaa!" on the music system. The song is swirling around him, cocooning him, and covering him from head to toe in its musical malador. Entering him and exiting, jumping up and down on him, and then jumping up and down on him some more. Swallowing him whole, spitting him out, and then sucking him back in, in a fetor of orchestral orchestrality. Burying him in its harmonies, carpeting him in its thick aural fibers, concealing him and revealing him at the same time in direct contradiction to the known laws of physics. Dressing him in women's undies, and enveloping him in a feminine femininity of femininal feminousity. Housing him like a family on welfare, enfolding him like a taco, and ensconcing him in a way that I could describe if only I knew what the word ensconce meant. It enshrouds him, shrouds him, and 'shrooms him under a rhythmic umbrella of euphonious fungus. A mushroom walks into a bar. "You can't come in here," the bartender tells it. "Why not?" the mushroom wants to know. "I'm a fungi." It veils him, disguises him, shields him, obscures him, masks him, and layers him in a smokescreen of operatic mephitis of noisomeness redolence, filling the room with an aural stench of symphonic proportions.
     Christian shows his appreciation by snoring in three-parts harmony.
     "Christian," I say, trying to wake him up. "We're done."
     "Christian, wake up. The doctor's ready to leave."
     "Wake up, darling, the doctor's waiting. She just needs to be paid so she can go."
     "Mumble, mumble, mumble... a monk fish stole my money," he says groggily, whatever he's dreaming just breaking the surface.
     I turn sheepishly to Dr. Bombay.
     "I'm sorry, doctor," I say, making my excuses, "but it's been a hard day for Christian."
     "It always is," she sighs, and casts a suspicious eye at Christian. "I'll send him a bill."
     With that, she leaves.
     When I look back to my very tired billionaire, I see he has one eye open, but just a slit. His eyeball is rolling around inside like it's looking for the last Twinkie. When he sees me seeing him, he waves me closer. I bend toward him.
     "Is she gone yet?" he asks.
Fifty Shades of Funny

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