The Knights of the Auto Order Proudly Present:
The Auto Body Estimate: Vol. II, #31, July '97

I don't like visiting the doctors' office. This reaction is not caused by fear, or by a desire to avoid the toxic exhalations of the sick, but from a general discomfort of being in the presence of so many who enjoy reading People, McCalls, or Good Housekeeping magazines.

When an itchy rash appeared on my neck I made an appointment at a local clinic. After waiting the requisite month until my appointment date arrived, I showed up early to fill out all six forms I've filled out every other time I've visited, then waited for my name to be mispronounced (Yoho IS difficult). The name-garbling, veteran nurse was VERY unimpressed with my problem. Her manner and expression left no doubt that nothing short of a critical injury would be worth her valuable time. "Why are you here?" she asked. "I have a rash." I replied. "Where is it?" I point. "Is that IT?" she asked incredulously. "come this way." After my weight and height were taken (which no doubt provided vital clues to my rash), she led me to an examination room where I attempted to sit on the paper-covered exam table. "Not there - on the chair", she bellowed, letting me know that my silly complaint wasn't even worth wrinkling the protective paper. Then she grew tired of belittling me and left.

Eventually the doctor arrived. Perhaps due to his exorbitant income, her was less concerned about saving paper then the nurse was and had me sit on the previously banned examining table. What I WANTED to say is in parenthesis.