I’m not the healthiest person and I, Cavity Sam, am the first one to admit that. But I thought licensed doctors would be able to fix me in one operation. Turns out, I’m so messed up to the point where my body would be under the care of rookie residents! As I lie awake, my naked body covered in dust from being stored in your parents’ basement, I’d like to have a word or two with the “surgeons” who 100% committed malpractice on me over the years.
If it was your plan all along to play Operation for family game night – despite the parents being on the verge of divorce – as a way to ignite a curiosity for medicine in the kids, no notes were taken by your “sweet boy” Timmy here. While, yes, it would be nice to finally have a doctor in the family, let me be the one to break the news to you: there is no way in fat hell that little Timmy here is gonna grow up to be any type of surgeon. Did you or did you not see your pride and joy trying to shove my Adam’s apple into my broken heart on his third turn? You can tell Timmy I’ll be seeing him in court.
What makes you think my health is a game to you? I have literal butterflies flying in my stomach, and I’m afraid they may be reproducing at any moment. When did peoples’ livelihoods become a sick game to you? Oh, I know. It’s that Monopoly game where you gentrify entire neighborhoods with luxury housing and hotels. People live in those homes on Park Place, you know! Honestly, I’d rather you be bad landlords because at least in Monopoly you can go to jail pretty easily. I just wish you guys played a little game called Sorry!
Also, even after you completely rearranged my guts, my medical bill is still through the roof. Seven thousand dollars, even after walking out with my funny bone in my Charley horse? Please tell me this isn’t legal? And to top it off, most families don’t even take my insurance. I’d sue for malpractice, but I couldn’t even physically hold the phone to call because a spare rib was used as a remedy for my writer’s cramp. I guess I’ll have to do what my other fellow Americans do in a situation like this – set up a GoFundMe account.
Here’s my suggestion: if you want to operate on me, go to school for like ten years like actual doctors. And while you’re at it, learn how to cut hair too because my middle part makes me look like I’m part of the Three Stooges.
Oh, you don’t want to put in all the work to play this silly game called my life? You know what, screw it. Let me die on this operating table.