Calling Dr. Gaspipe! I would say that somewhere in the neighborhood of 80% (4 out of 5) of my readers knows that lil' Squirt will need some surgery to repair his imperfection. The surgery could hardly be called invasive however, it's fuggin surgery. Whatever, if you have seen the kid or heard me talk about him you know.

Which brings the Mrs. and me to the point of interviewing surgeons.

Woo hoo! You know how I feel about doctors. All quiet assurance until you ask them the trick question. You know, the specific, empirically based one like:
"Hey Doc, since you want me to help out with your car/boat/vacation home payments, how 'bout showing me the results of your latest wranglings in human meets scalpel series?"

"Huh, what, ...the temerity...don't you realize the privacy covenants of doctor/patient privilege are SACRED?"

OK. Moving right along to contestant #2: "Sawbones, show me why I should trust you with my son's life?"

"Well, I have an established practice of nearly 20 years dealing mostly in pediatrics.."

Wait right there. Refer me to three of your latest CUSTOMERS with the same ailment.

"Well, I can't do that! Those people entrust me with their deepest medical secrets..."

That's all I need to know. NEXT!

Suggestion to one and all physicians out there. If you are interested in drumming up business, do what the plastic surgeons do: report on a website, be specific, and offer referrals. Otherwise, you run the risk of losing the PIA (pain in ass) clientele.

Fortunately for my 5 readers this is not the point of my post.

The Mrs. and I head to the surgery group's office. Therein, we are seated in the cavernous waiting room so we might sweat it out with the injured, the sickly, the convalescing, and the "ready to pitch" salespeople. I grab a number (cool, 4,559,003, me lucky number) and wait.

We are called in after a 10 minute wait. Not bad considering the mob in the waiting room.

In the examination room, I look for a seat while the Mrs. sits down and gives lil Squirt a snack. I grab the examination table. And we wait.

I am immediately impressed when the doctor enters the room. I am quite impressed he made it to the office today. Close your eyes and imagine: disheveled hair, ink on his hands, bleary eyed, unstable feet. In a word, I'm thinking "Alky."

He seals the deal when he opens his mouth:
"Now, who are you again?"
"I've seen you before?"
"Yes, the defect is complete, I think."
"Did I write a letter to your insurance company? I am sure I did. It must have gotten lost."
"I feel like my hair is on fire!"

Social retardation was considered...for a moment. After watching him do the following:
a.) lean on wall
b.) try to stand upright.
c.) get upright but,
d.) leave a file he had behind his back
I figured the real culprit may be physical and/or chemical.

Later, when the Mrs. asked me what I thought he was on, I was open minded.
"Honey, he's either having a really bad day or a whole lot of vodka."  ¶ 2:25 PM