The Awkward Letters
By J. L. Thurston
Dear Subway Girl,
I do not know why you are crying as you make my 6-inch Italian BMT. Is it the stress of working random hours for minimum wage in a town where grumpy old men only order a black coffee and their wives sneer at the Pink Panther tat on your wrist? I don’t know where these sobs originate from, and, girl, I have to tell you, I feel for you. I really do. But could you please stop letting your tears fall into the spinach and black olives? My sandwich is fine without your sad sprinkles nestled between the flatbread. Go on break and let Loud-Mouth Marla remake my sandwich minus your body fluids.
Disgusted and Sympathetic Customer
Dear Pet Bat Lady,
I would like to recommend the excellent mental health unit at my place of employment for your earliest treatment. Please come to me anytime you are ready to give them a call. As you probably do not suspect, this is pertaining to the ‘pet bat’ incident. For future notice, whenever a person tells you they highly enjoy Halloween, do not lie to them and tell them you have a pet bat. Do not proceed with this misinformation by showing that person a shoe box with a dead bat inside.
Prior to visiting the mental health unit, you should stop by the ER. You certainly have rabies.
Best of luck in your treatment,
Jenni “Please-Don’t-Kill-Me” Thurston
Yes, we all see you. You’ve done it a handful of times, already. Lifting the collar of your shirt so you can sneeze, full-blast, into it. Although I do appreciate you making the effort to avoid spraying your diseases all over the store, it is becoming almost more disgusting knowing that you have a chest caked in snot and saliva that is beginning to spatter the front of your Stewie Griffin T-shirt.
I recommend Benadryl and Tide with bleach. Also, visit WebMD for not only a diagnosis, but for information on the importance of hygiene.
Get well soon,
…Oh, God, my nose is itchy.
Dear Terrible Patient,
A total of ten years working in healthcare have taught me many things. The hardest lesson is to avoid being judgmental. But you, sir, I shall judge accurately and swiftly.
It took me less than thirty seconds to realize that you are not an educated man. This was easy to discern when you confided in me that ‘all doctors are retards.’ Yes, I do indeed know a number of moronic imbeciles with medical degrees, but let’s not throw around the R word in a building where people of all walks of life come for help.
My initial assessment of your intelligence was confirmed when you lumbered your large bottom into the wheelchair, wrapping your oxygen tubing around your throat twice, and told me ‘women have no business driving,’ as I prepared to wheel you out of your room.
On that note, I would like to apologize for snapping back, “I’d like to see you do better.” But I am also relieved I restrained from calling you an obese slug.
My complaining must continue further as I could not refrain from rolling my eyes and gagging as you described to me the generosity of all your ‘girlfriends’ who have paid you visits since your admission here. I’m sure you are a player, Mr. Personality. Rolling in the ladies, you are.
All these terrible comments could be easily forgotten until you decided it was appropriate to lay hands on me. I am performing a CT scan of your brain. This is not an invitation to put your hands around my waist and tell me that you have pain in that region. Point to your own waste- uh, I’m sorry, waist- you gelatinous pervert, and keep your yellow-nailed sausage fingers off my body.
If I didn’t need this job I’d have elbowed you in the nose and gave you a real reason to be admitted.
Dear Doctor Underage Breast Exam,
I have not attended medical school, but I do have something known as common sense. Though it has been years since our last meeting, I would like to formally acknowledge that I am 100% aware that the breast exams I received under your care as a pre-teen girl were solely for your sexual pleasure. This knowledge has not affected my life in any way.
I hope you lose your dick and burn in hell.