YOU ARE A TWAT DOCTOR. DO SOMETHING.
Not that TMI, because there's no details. THIS IS ALL I'M GONNA SAY.
Listen, you gyno-ma-co-lol-ogist, listen good. I've been having some issues lately with The Love Below. I was all responsible and crap. I forced my uncooperative genitals into their travel crate and brought them down to YOU, Dr. TwatterBoobs. I didn't expect much, but I did expect an answer. Something simple like, "Oh yes miss. This is a classic case of Under-used Coochamatitis-itis". Thank everything I've got insurance, because nobody in your worthless office could tell me what was wrong. You just shrugged and said "I dunno, the tests were OK" and gave me a tube of ointment. This is something Dr. House would say could be accomplished "by a monkey with a bottle of Motrin". Thanks, assholes. Thanks for charging me to do what I was already doing by myself, and for much less cashola. I too can shrug and slather my crevasse with cream, and I didn't even go to medical school! Does this mean I'm a doctor, too?
How's that decade of schooling working out for ya?
You cannot seriously stand there, looking all hot in your vagina specialist lab coat, and tell me you "dunno". Of all the mangled, horrifying, wrecked, broken-ass pussy you've seen in your years as a speculum spelunker, you can't solve my relatively minor problem? It's not as if I've got parts missing like the dancers in the Thriller video. It does not look like the sewers from Ghostbusters II. GO BACK AND READ SOME MORE FINE LITERATURE IN YOUR BREAK ROOM LIBRARY AND TRY AGAIN. It should be filed under, Mild Issues Affecting the Happy Hut Vol. 3
The Hut is not Happy. No, happy is the last term I would use. I am about to exchange your 19th century ointment for a BLOWTORCH.
Listen, you gyno-ma-co-lol-ogist, listen good. I've been having some issues lately with The Love Below. I was all responsible and crap. I forced my uncooperative genitals into their travel crate and brought them down to YOU, Dr. TwatterBoobs. I didn't expect much, but I did expect an answer. Something simple like, "Oh yes miss. This is a classic case of Under-used Coochamatitis-itis". Thank everything I've got insurance, because nobody in your worthless office could tell me what was wrong. You just shrugged and said "I dunno, the tests were OK" and gave me a tube of ointment. This is something Dr. House would say could be accomplished "by a monkey with a bottle of Motrin". Thanks, assholes. Thanks for charging me to do what I was already doing by myself, and for much less cashola. I too can shrug and slather my crevasse with cream, and I didn't even go to medical school! Does this mean I'm a doctor, too?
How's that decade of schooling working out for ya?
You cannot seriously stand there, looking all hot in your vagina specialist lab coat, and tell me you "dunno". Of all the mangled, horrifying, wrecked, broken-ass pussy you've seen in your years as a speculum spelunker, you can't solve my relatively minor problem? It's not as if I've got parts missing like the dancers in the Thriller video. It does not look like the sewers from Ghostbusters II. GO BACK AND READ SOME MORE FINE LITERATURE IN YOUR BREAK ROOM LIBRARY AND TRY AGAIN. It should be filed under, Mild Issues Affecting the Happy Hut Vol. 3
The Hut is not Happy. No, happy is the last term I would use. I am about to exchange your 19th century ointment for a BLOWTORCH.