boob (BREAST) Hide phonetics
noun [C] VERY INFORMAL
a woman's breast:
You know her - blonde hair and big boobs.
It's official, I would rather die of the flu than visit another walk-in clinic. I know that benefitting from the Canadian health care system and expecting to leave satisfied is kind of like a beggar asking to choose, but I give up.
From now on I'll just Google my symptoms. Yeah the Internet's risky, but so is marinating yourself in the slurry of diseases waiting for you in the walk-in waiting room.
The depressingly bland painted areas always have a way of making time creep by with the speed of a one-legged spider with cramps. You could help fight boredom by picking up an outdated issue of Vanity Fair or House & Home but is it really worth risking Ebola just to find out that your clothes and furniture suck?
So instead you stare at a cartoon chart that tells you you're eating way too many carbs and drinking way too little water until you're called upon. You spend most of this time trying to use mind magic to levitate your health card to the top of the patient deck and wondering why the receptionist treated you as if you stole her lunch break.
Eventually, you're called into the walk-in stables, where you wait another eternity and a half. This time you memorize a more graphic chart of your organs and the behind-the-scenes areas of your genitals while fighting the temptation to steal individually wrapped throat swabs.
Finally, the door handle jiggles and you scream "Hallelujah!" before realizing how awkward the next few minutes will be. The doctor follows up his introduction by poking, pushing and prodding his way through the do-not-disturb zones of your body. "Nice to meet you. I'm Dr. Smith and this is my hand on your bare boob."
I could have seen my family doctor, but I forgot to make the appointment for my January 2008 fever back in May 2002 when it was available. It totally slipped my mind! I'll fill him in on my symptoms at next year's semi-biannual, express checkup. I'm not looking forward to it, though. His scale lies. A lot.
I've made a few attempts to cheat on him and find a new doctor but all it taught me is that I'm less attractive as a regular patient than Patrick Swayze is as a transvestite woman. The receptionists for family doctors are like the crypt keepers of a secret cult. Within five seconds of introducing yourself they'll have you apologizing for entering their office like an illegal refugee at immigration.
The only flaw in being diagnosed by the Internet is that you can't download a prescription. I'll get around this by making my own Dr. Jalees stationery and arbitrarily doodling on a piece while holding the pen with my toes.
Pharmacists always guess what you need based on your symptoms anyway. If you don't believe me, next time you're there picking up a prescription, just tell the lady at Shoppers you're feeling super "glaucoma-ish." You're welcome in advance.
I'm aware that writing false prescriptions is illegal and you can call me a fraud but if there's one thing I'm not forging, it's your pink eye.
Google is officially my new M.D., and I'm telling you, my boobs couldn't be happier.
Join Sabrina Jalees (at a safe, germ-free
distance) tonight at 9:30 on MuchMusic on Stars Gone Wild.