House had never been a shining example of doctor-like behaviour. He never had been, and he never would be, because it was far too late to change his ways now. An old dog can't learn new tricks, as they say - except for House, who devoted most of his time to learning completely time-wasting things like juggling, coin-flipping and the very specific art of building pyramids from cards.
He'd been in the middle of guessing which 'Big Busty Bazookas' were real, and which were surgically enhanced, but a nap had sounded like a far better ideas. Patients could wait. Until one came storming right in.
Lifting the magazine off his face, House cracked open an eye to glare suspiciously at the patient. Christ, it was one of those types.
"Is that your life story?" He asked sarcastically, not bothering to sit up. "Good lord, how fascinating. I'm riveted in my chair. You should write a book, I bet it would sell for millions. I wouldn't buy a copy, but I've already heard it from the horse's mouth. Or ass's mouth, I should say."
...I had the distinct feeling that this man might possibly be mentally retarded. Do they allow retarded people to become doctors? I don't think they allow retarded people to become doctors. I listed the time. The time, my friend, is not listed as a life story. I'm fairly sure that's something you can even double check on Wikipedia.
With a finger pointed at the man in question, I screwed up my face. Demanding. Quite possibly outraged. Who did he think he was? He just called me an ass! Dwight K. Schrute! Lesser men had died because of such, he should know. Lesser men had felt the wrath of an iron fist. I know three kinds of martial arts. I have a green belt in karate. Which is like a black belt. But green. "You, sir, have bad customer service in your clinic. That's not symptomatic of a good company. I would know." I do. I have excellent customer service. I was the best salesperson, back at Dunder-Mifflin. I beat a computer. "You're sleeping on the job. It's been twenty-four minutes and seventeen seconds now."
"Oh, god," House groaned dramatically, slapping the magazine back over his face and making every pretense of simply going back to sleep. "You really are one of those types."
'Those types' being the anal-retentive sort that did everything by the clock and insisted on telling everybody what they were doing wrong. It was almost enough to make House want to run for the nearest bathroom and vomit explosively into the sink. People were so annoying, sometimes.
Dismissively, he waved a hand. "What do you want?" House's voice was muffled by pages 15 and 16 - which, if he recalled correctly, featured a very nice two-page feature of someone called Mary MacKenzie. Great boobs. A shame they were fake. "Do you have some kind of systemic problem? Shit coming out of your mouth? It had better be good, because otherwise I'm not interested."
"No, no," I automatically argued, grabbing at the magazine and removing it from House's face, brandishing the thing in what had to be an entirely threatening manner. Which, to the outsider, may or may not have just resembled a middle-aged man shaking a half of a two-page spread of a naked woman at another middle-aged man, perhaps a discussion of how wonderful of a form Mary MacKenzie happened to have. Which was not the case, and outsiders could correct themselves accordingly.
"Types, what does that mean?" I asked. No, demanded, and tossed - nay, threw! - the magazine onto the counter. "What are you hiding? What's my type? Does that mean I have the bird flu?" What were the symptoms of that? Oh, God, did that include... what did he say? What came out of where? Did that actually happen to people? He had to be lying.
Dammit! I knew I should have further researched the topic! Now here I was, foiled by birds!
An idea. It dawned upon me. Dawned, mind you. Not just occurred. Not just came to me. Dawned. Much like ideas do, with geniuses. "
( ... )
Comments 4
He'd been in the middle of guessing which 'Big Busty Bazookas' were real, and which were surgically enhanced, but a nap had sounded like a far better ideas. Patients could wait. Until one came storming right in.
Lifting the magazine off his face, House cracked open an eye to glare suspiciously at the patient. Christ, it was one of those types.
"Is that your life story?" He asked sarcastically, not bothering to sit up. "Good lord, how fascinating. I'm riveted in my chair. You should write a book, I bet it would sell for millions. I wouldn't buy a copy, but I've already heard it from the horse's mouth. Or ass's mouth, I should say."
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With a finger pointed at the man in question, I screwed up my face. Demanding. Quite possibly outraged. Who did he think he was? He just called me an ass! Dwight K. Schrute! Lesser men had died because of such, he should know. Lesser men had felt the wrath of an iron fist. I know three kinds of martial arts. I have a green belt in karate. Which is like a black belt. But green. "You, sir, have bad customer service in your clinic. That's not symptomatic of a good company. I would know." I do. I have excellent customer service. I was the best salesperson, back at Dunder-Mifflin. I beat a computer. "You're sleeping on the job. It's been twenty-four minutes and seventeen seconds now."
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'Those types' being the anal-retentive sort that did everything by the clock and insisted on telling everybody what they were doing wrong. It was almost enough to make House want to run for the nearest bathroom and vomit explosively into the sink. People were so annoying, sometimes.
Dismissively, he waved a hand. "What do you want?" House's voice was muffled by pages 15 and 16 - which, if he recalled correctly, featured a very nice two-page feature of someone called Mary MacKenzie. Great boobs. A shame they were fake. "Do you have some kind of systemic problem? Shit coming out of your mouth? It had better be good, because otherwise I'm not interested."
Reply
"Types, what does that mean?" I asked. No, demanded, and tossed - nay, threw! - the magazine onto the counter. "What are you hiding? What's my type? Does that mean I have the bird flu?" What were the symptoms of that? Oh, God, did that include... what did he say? What came out of where? Did that actually happen to people? He had to be lying.
Dammit! I knew I should have further researched the topic! Now here I was, foiled by birds!
An idea. It dawned upon me. Dawned, mind you. Not just occurred. Not just came to me. Dawned. Much like ideas do, with geniuses. " ( ... )
Reply
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