CELL PHONE NOISE
Hello?
“Good morning, Mr. on the Dead. I am calling to set up your telemedicine call with Dr. E—-.”
Oh, great. Thank you.
“And I am also calling to see if you would like to join my OnlyFans site?”
I don’t think so.
“You will already be playing around on your phone!”
Still.
“I will send you a textual message containing a hyperlink. I had a hyper cousin growing up. We called him Impulsive Tony.”
Okay. So I follow the link.
“Unless it leads to sin. Then you must forge your own path.”
I don’t think the link will lead to sin. More likely, a website.
“Many websites are nothing but sin! I know of one where men’s feet get pooped on. It employs Impulsive Tony.”
We were talking about my telemedicine call with the doctor.
“I love that word. ‘Telemedicine’ sounds so much nicer than ‘video chatting with a Jewish fellow wearing a white coat and no pants.’ By the way, I am legally bound to inform you before your call that the doctor may or may not be wearing pants.”
Okay.
“But in the spirit of friendship, I will inform you that he is definitely not. And sometimes the popsicle slides out of the box.”
Um, sure.
“It flops out! Audibly! The doctor is a man of meat.”
None of this is helping me.
“You will need to enable access to your microphone.”
Okay.
“And your camera.”
Right.
“And all the other information in your phone. Passwords, photos, location history, everything.”
Why do you need that?
“It is not a matter of ‘need.’ The Stimulus Bill of Last Tuesday gives us the ability to demand it, and so we are following the law.”
Whatever.
“Do you own a BusbeeTech 802 E-nurse?”
A what now?
“It is an all-in-one unit that monitors 18 different bodily functions and wirelessly transmits the information back to the doctor.”
How the hell–
“It goes up your butt!”
–does that work? Ah.
“It measures temperature, pulse, oxygen levels, perspicacity, ability to do the watusi, free radicals, expensive radicals, and whether or not you have Scottie Pippen Disease.”
Scottie Pippen doesn’t have a disease.
“Look at that man’s head and tell me there isn’t something wrong with him!”
Regardless.
“The 802 E-nurse is also, as I mentioned, wireless. The 801 required both a power cable and a USB wire. Very occasionally, knotting would occur. And also one time, this lady forgot she had it in and went to fetch herself some cole slaw from the fridge. She lost her asshole!”
Irrelevant to my case.
“The doctors could not reattach it! They had to mash together bits of elbow and earlobe to create her a new pooper. I have heard it doesn’t work right.”
Can’t imagine that it would.
“Which model did you say you had, Mr. on the Dead?”
No model. I do not possess a hospital-dildo.
“Well, let me check your insurance and see if you are worthy of one.”
…
“Fed Ex will be at your house within 16 hours. Please immediately insert the device so that it can begin getting base-line readings of your vital signs, and stop shrieking in terror.”
What now?
“Funny story! The BusbeeTech 802 E-nurse was programmed to have a debilitating fear of buttholes.”
Why are the medical buttplugs even sentient at all?
“Funny story! Lightning hit the factory and they all came to life. Don’t think about it too much. Just shove it in your soft-soft and ignore it when it begs to be let out.”
They can talk?
“Along with the debilitating fear of buttholes, it’s a feature that perhaps shouldn’t have made the final code. What’s done is done. Most of our patients recommend sitting on a pillow, or wearing headphones. They tire themselves out pretty quick.”
I’m not using this doohickey. Don’t send me one.
“Too late. It will be there in mere minutes, as the only vehicles on the streets anymore are delivery trucks. Thank you. I have several more points to go over with you.”
We’re not done?
“Nowhere near! At the beginning of your telemedicine appointment, we would appreciate it if you smashed that Like button, and subscribed to the doctor’s channel.”
Sure.
“I would like to remind you that the more you tip, the better the doctor is.”
There’s a tip button?
“It is 2020, Mr on the Dead. All humans have tip buttons now. We are two years away from being an entirely tip button-based economy.”
You’re probably right.
“Would you like to join the doctor’s Patreon?”
No.
“Would you like to see a collection of his TikToks?”
No.
“The doctor may ask you to position your phone so that he may view your grundle. If he does, the feed will go live to an app called Grundl. And before you begin to argue–”
That was in the Stimulus Bill?
“–you should know…. Yes, the recent one. Only about 14 people have read that thing front-to-back. There is tomfoolery in there! Do you recall chattel slavery?”
Yes.
“It is back! Someone really should have skimmed that puppy, but everyone wanted their $1200 so bad!”
That’s awful. But I really just wanna see the doctor.
“Is it the kabibble?”
That’s what I want to know.
“Are you taking wagers? Because I am looking at your chart, and I believe that you have it. Your luck is poor. Twenty bucks on positive.”
No bet.
“Fifty they gotta vent you.”
Stop that. When will the doctor be calling?
“The E-nurse will notify you ten minutes beforehand.”
Notify?
“You will know. I assure you, Mr. on the Dead that you will not miss the message.”
I don’t like 2020.
“It is an unrelenting behemoth of grief and loss! You have a nice day.”
You, too.
I tried reading this aloud to my wife but was laughing so hard and it was taking so long when I got to “sometimes the popsicle slides out of the box” I pooped myself. And then when I saw the word kabibble I thought of “Ish,” who my father first told me about, and pooped myself again. Rough day.