“I have a pain,” Amy tells the ER physician.
“That’s a bit obtuse. What kind of pain?” The doctor asks.
“A Presidential pain.”
Dr Gillian scribbles “Poor historian” into her chart. “Okay, I’ll bite. What’s a presidential pain?”
“That incorrigible cuggermugger is heading us toward a plutocratic society.”
Dr Gillian focuses his jasper eyes on her. She quickly turns away. He adds “scopophobia” to her chart. “Are you sure there isn’t a medical condition I can help you with?” He points to a large dermoid cyst on her face.
“I guess you could give me some plasma from that canteen over there.” Amy points to an IV bag.
He shakes his head, now irritable. “Not to be repetitive, but why are you here?”
“Because we don’t even know if that stupid animalistic syncophant is Pro-Choice. And what is he going to do about the hurricane?”
“Hurricane?”
“Yeah, Little Gilly,” She says sarcastically. “Hurricane Matthew. I hope it strikes Carnegie Hall while he’s in it. I’d love to have a Filipina President in favor of Communism.”
Dr Gillian huffs. “Seriously, is there any medical reason for you to be here? A cold? Fever? A phlogiston in your sphincter? Smegma? Bodily miasma? Anything?”
Amy’s face is blank, puzzling over the question.
“I’m going to go ahead and have you sign some discharge papers.”
“I’ll only sign with a pineapple pen!” Amy demands.
Dr Gillian decides he doesn’t want to deal with a 5150. “How about I give you some candy?”
Amy smiles and signs the form.