“Doctor,” I gasped, when he finally
entered the room, “I can’t control my @#$%^&* words. I keep saying *&^% or some other
@#$%^&* swear word. I’m a
*%#-of-a-^$@*% if I know what’s happening!
“If you’re going to talk like that,
you’d better be drunk,” he snarled. “I’ll get you another cheap domestic beer
for $18.”
“I haven’t been drinking! I
@#$%^&* can’t help this. Do
something!
“Your sincerity amazes. Let’s have a look!” He shined that *^$-%&#%*$ bright light in
my eyes, nose and ears, grabbed my neck as if to choke me, and stuck one of
those popsicle-sticks-on-steroids in my mouth.
“Say ‘ahhh’,” he intoned. Twenty
@#$%^&* minutes later he removed the ^$@! stick, stared at it in disgust
and threw it away. “Mouthwash not one of
your things, ehh?!”
“@#$% mouthwash, Doc. What’s going on?!”
“You have a rare condition known as non-Tourette’s-exclamatory-linguitis.”
“@#$%^&*-a,
Doc, and ‘puer est agricola’. Say that
in English!”
“Right,
Latin-master! Your brain prevents you
from saying a pleasant word. Say ‘thank
you’.”
“@#$%
you!”
“See? You can’t do it. It’s treatable, but it’s so entertaining I
hate to interfere. Come with me on my
rounds!”
“Doc!”
“O.K. I’ll give you a shot to counteract it and
some pills to keep it away.” He grinned
and plunged me with some Amazon basin bile.
“Thank
you,” I said, surprised at the welcome absence of obscenity.
“Always
a pleasure seeing you,” he said, slamming the door.
“You
forgot to say ‘suffer’,” I muttered, “…seeing you suffer!”
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