UNPLANNED DISCOURSE ON PROFESSIONS OF NOTE
So I do a blog on bologna-puking, and suddenly I’m pulling record (for me) numbers of hits on this thing. It’s nice to finally know what my public is looking for. What vile byproduct will I intentionally besmirch my digestive system and subsequently my toilet with next? I have it on good faith that the people who want to know number in the triple digits! I picked up a package of something the local supermarket made that they seem to think is sushi, so chances are I’ll be crankin’ out another winner in short order. I’ve been calling poops “winners” lately.
Unfortunately not a lot has taken place in the few days that have passed since I last spoke to you people. Writing about work is not an option; I retain nothing that happens there. It’s all a blur, a head-hurting smudge that I occasionally seem to have some sort of indistinguishable effect on. I am not uncomfortable there (high praise from me where the concept of work and jobs are concerned) but I am always overjoyed to leave. I think it would be great to have a job you could blog about. I really like writing about my day, and if you take a look at my old (and in some respects superior) blog, you’ll see that used to be mostly what I did. All there is is what happens to you during a day. You should pay attention to it. Isn’t that meaningful? Write that down on something. That’s a direct quote from the author of “Bolog? Na!: An Exorcism” so you know it’s intelligent and worthwhile.
I bet a cop would have a lot to blog about. I follow this guy on Twitter who goes by the name “philthethrill”. He’s a cop who updates whenever he encounters something interesting. It’s very compelling. Can you even imagine being a cop, though? I can’t. It’s like you’re the boss of the entire town. Everyone has to do what you say, except you’re just this guy. Or gal, purportedly. Women can work jobs, too, I guess. Whenever I pass a cop, and my heart rate has returned to normal once it’s become clear that he either hasn’t noticed or doesn’t care that I have a tail light out (I don’t know and can’t be bothered to learn how to replace it but I don’t want to give someone else some of my money to fix it; this is a problem I seem to be having with quite a few things at the moment), I get to thinking about the concept of cops, and the kind of person you would have to be to want to have that for your job. Because that’s not a job you just bumble into. Me, I go to school for awhile, then when that’s over I freak out and work for the first place that’ll hire me. A cop’s one of those jobs you have to have in mind from the getgo. You have to tell yourself that’s what you want to do, be a cop, and you have to do a lot of hard stuff to become one, and once you’re the cop you have to continue to do hard stuff until you retire or get killed. You would need equal parts nobility and insanity, or, failing that happily dual-toned pie graph, 100% of one or the other, either of whom would make for a potentiallly annoying policeman. Mr Goody Two Shoes or Mr Baddy Shoot Kids.
Other than the dudes (or dudettes, sorry again, fairer sex whom I never take into consideration in matters not directly involving boobs) whose cop dads (or moms) made them be cops (or coptresses) as well, you have to figure that something extremely significant and upsetting needs to have happened to this individual in question who suddenly feels strongly enough about the behavior of the entire community that they find themselves walking to a police academy and taking tests and obeying orders that if all goes well will result in their being able to walk around in public with a device at the ready and in full view of onlookers that can cause the death of anyone they choose to point it at. Same with the folks who want to be doctors. All I can wonder is what organ do they have that I’m missing, or vice-versa maybe.
Circumstance and conscious decision are not sufficient explanations for why anyone would ever want to be a cop or a doctor. I find both professions terrifying. If I were introduced to a cop and a doctor at a party, the first thing that popped into my mind would immediately be “Ah, I see! You want to kill people, and you want to molest people and play with their guts, yet neither of you want to be imprisoned for these actions. A pleasure meeting you both. Honey, do you have the keys? Our lives are in jeopardy. Good night, everyone! You’re in good hands!”
The most extreme example of this prejudiced but (I feel) difficult to argue viewpoint is best applied to the male gynecologist. This is a man who wants to stick things up vaginas all day and get paid for it. If this is not true, then kindly explain to me why else a red-blooded male would study and apply for this sort of work? I realize “it takes all kinds”, but I just have a hard time envisioning a guy sitting around thinking “You know, women really have a difficult time with their vaginas. Always some sort of discharge or embarrassing itch, and then there’s all that period stuff. Dammit, it’s about time someone did something about this. I’m going to become a doctor so I can help all the women in the entire world with their vagina problems.” Far easier to imagine a guy thinking: “You mean women will pay me to fist them? Scholarship here I come!” This isn’t even me being paranoid. This is as cut and dry as it gets. I mean, after awhile they all probably start looking about the same, so I guess maybe if your male gynecologist is somewhat elderly, you can at least be comforted in the tenuous knowledge that he probably isn’t getting as much of a rise out of your Pap smear as he might have back when he was just a little gynecologist. At any rate, my guess and my hope is that male gynecologists are probably more and more becoming a thing of the past, which is as it should be, and we can heretofore leave the profession in the capable hands of the lesbian community.
I’m saying that doctors and cops freak me out! They’re crazy!
My current job has pretty good medical benefits, so I’ve actually put them to use once or twice. In the past I’ve hardly been to see a doctor at all, unless it was some sort of emergency (strictly gastrointestinal; a lifetime of remaining seated has rendered my odds for any type of physical injury virtually nonexistent), but when I do go, I expect molestation. It feels inevitable. Have I ever been molested by a doctor? Certainly: In the past they have groped my testicles and inserted their finger into my anus. If that’s not molestation, than pray, what is molestation? Maybe I’ve been misunderstanding the term all these years.
Helpful, point-proving example: Say you have a problem, and you hear that Mr. Willigans is excellent at helping people get rid of their problems. You go to Mr. Willigans and ask him for help. He says “Sure thing”, then pulls down your pants, grabs your balls, and sticks his finger up your butt. Would you not feel used, outraged, broken? Would you not think about this terrible moment every day for the rest of your life, fighting back tears, trying to ignore the roiling fireball of shame in your guts? Would you not seek help from the police, who are insane, and would shoot you with their guns? “I need to check your prostate” and “This is to check for hernias” sounds an awful lot like “Don’t tell anyone or your mommy and daddy won’t love you anymore” to me. I have seen no physical evidence of the existence of “prostates” and “hernias”, ergo the only conclusion to derive from all of this is that doctors find me sexy and want to touch me naked.
Really, though, all “joking” aside, these are terrifying professions, and it would be so hard for me to make friends with someone who had either of these jobs, no matter how much I might theoretically like their personality. One can’t help but respect cops and doctors, and “respect” is typically a word with nothing but positive connotations, but isn’t it just polite terror?
You start thinking about it and you can’t stop. These people, these cops and doctors, these psychos and molesters, if they’re doing their jobs properly, are here to keep us from dying. That’s their job. That’s NUTS. Our lives are all in each other’s hands, nobody really knows anyone, and everything we have to do is terrifying.
Hey, the cookies are done! Yay! Goodnight!