by
Bob Southard
With sincere apologies to Theodor Seuss Geisel,
author of
"You're Only Old Once"
In
the mystical Land of the Allsee-indocs diagnostic technology will knock off your
socks.
Consider good Doctor McFoley McGee
and his nifty machine via
which he can see each pain, and each sprain, and all of your frame from your follicles
down to your knobby old knees.
Now a fellow by name of McFilbert McGurk
went to see the good doc for a check after work.
He felt kind of randy but
otherwise dandy.
Said Doc, "In a jiff we'll see what makes you perk."
The
machine was a marvel of latest technology, using chromo-galactic-magneto-biology.
It
probed and it planned, it scinted and scanned each organ, each hair, orifice,
and pathology.
Inside the machine McGurk carefully went.
In less than
a minute of time had been spent he exited down. Saw the doc with a frown.
Said
McGurk, "Oh, no! My willy-wad's bent?"
From the words that the doc had
just carefully spoken McGurk thought he must have been wrong, or been jokin'.
"I've
got Peacock's disease! Are you sure it's not fleas?"
The doc said, "I'm sure,
pal, tough luck. You're broken."
McGurk cried, "Perhaps it's just bedbug
infection!"
The doc said, "I'm sorry, our machine leaves no question.
It
indicated so, and therefore we know.
It's a model of modern scientific perfection.
"See
in old days of ancient digital technology, Eurodocs checked Peacock's wazoo-based
chronology.
They felt for a bump or a lump or a hump, but weren't sure of what,
where, or when etiology.
"This Peacock's hits many good fellows, McGurk.
There
are generals, bureaucrats, and sody-pop jerks that go through this wringer. Why,
even a singer or schemer or doctor or walnut store clerk.
"Now McGurk,
your case isn't totally black.
See your Peacock's shell still hasn't developed
a crack.
Your Perfect PP is one hundred you see,
and three zeros, and that's
for an absolute fact."
"Good Doc, just slow down a bit if you please,"
said
McGurk, trying to settle his wobbly old knees.
"You're going too fast for my
brain to synapse, and please translate for me that technolog-ese."
"Well,
our Perfect PP is supremely sublime.
It tells us when Peacock's steps over
the line,"
said Doctor McGee. "The first number you see shows your PC disease
is still fully confined.
"If PPP showed nil, one-hundred, zip, zip it could
tell us a lot, and would be a tip that your Peacock's got feathers, and also tells
whether they're rosy red, small, light chartreuse, or the pits.
"If Perfect
PP were zip, zip, hundred, null we would know that your Peacock, attachments and
all had its poor wings infected, and you'd be selected for seminal treatment,
or so it's been called.
"Some nasty Peacock scrambled eggs may have grown
if it's P-cubed zip, zip, zip, one hundred you own.
This isn't polemic; it
shows you're systemic.
Your lympy-lymph-lumps you'll just have to disown.
By
now our McGurk, a bit Peacock blue,
was curious to know what next he should
do.
"Doc, I would be raptured if this bird were captured and sent on its way
to the Saint Luey zoo."
The doc said "Ideas I've got one or two.
They
involve several therapies, tried, not quite true.
We can fry it, or carve it,
or freeze it, or starve it, or watch it. The option is most up to you."
"But,
Doc" said McGurk, thinking overyly simple.
"Which one puts me back in the nice
pinky-pinkle?"
Doc said "It's not easy. Some might make you quesy, or maybe
one might give you pink Peacock pimples."
"Not to mention dependably tink-tinkly-tinkles,
or a poker that lays there in limp wrinkly-wrinkles.
Or a burning sensation,
or near-constipation, or your feet might come down with the gross stinky-stinkles.
"And
then there's the matter of personal diet.
First list all your favorites. Go
on, and try it.
Now throw them away. Buy gray goop and hay, then mix them with
kumquats. You'll find it's a riot.
"Why don't you go stew on this for the
night,"
said the doc, "I know you'll find something that's right for you and
the missus. I'm sure you'll see this is a nice range of options. Nighty night.
Sleepy tight."
"Thank you for all of your help, doc, I think,"
said
McGurk. And, of course, he slept not a wink at all that whole night. "Something's
not right,"
thought McGurk, as he pondered, and sat on the brink.
The
Allsee-indocs saw how everything fit.
But now it was time that McGurk kept
to his wit.
The machine helped him see it was time he should flee to find the
best way from this terrible pit.
He remembered he'd heard of a wonderful
place, where the healthcare providers had magical grace.
Maybe they'd know
how to fix him, and show how to beat the blue dollar-snakes at their own race.
Said
McGurk as he packed up his knickers and socks, "Time to move to the Land of the
Alldo-indocs."
