DOCTOR FUNNY MARCH MADNESS PROMPT RESPONSE
Madge Madden
And her maddening ‘madgination
It was an intervention!
Seated around the table was my so-called caring family.
“You really should see it from our perspective, Madge.” My brother leaned in conspiratorially as if I was about to agree with his unsolicited opinion.
“You need a lot of help,” he whispered.
“Cut the pussyfooting around, Don!” screeched my sister, Mary. “She’s nuts! Crazy as a cut cat! Not! The! Full! Quid!”
Leaning forward, dragging a drooping, unrestrained boob through her tea, my aging mother remarked, “She can’t help it. Gets it from her stupid arse father.”
“You’re bathing your tit again!” I pointed out. ‘Makes you look like you’re the one with genetic deficiencies.”
“Oh there you go again,” pounced Mary. “La dee dah, Madge, always knows the right words but doesn’t have a … doesn’t have a…”
“I think the word you want is, lucid,” I helped out. “I don’t have a lucid thought in my brain. Well, you’re wrong. I can think just fine. If it wasn’t for all the loonies and weirdos that keep cropping up in my life, which, just quietly, is a freaking nightmare, I’d be fine!”
“Well, we’ve had enough of your stories of nighttime visitors, people who want to tie you up, stalkers, poison in your coffee, drug dealers forcing you into dependency, and all the nonsense you’ve put us and your associates through for years.”
There were nods of agreement around the table. I watched, fascinated, as Ma’s boob created a tidal wave of brown liquid which slopped into her saucer.
“My friend is coming to join us,” I replied, smugly.
“There’s no friend, and if you don’t take steps to finally end this nonsense, we will do it for you!” declared my big bro.
The trip to the psychiatrist’s office was a nightmare!
I had to walk a hundred yards from my tiny apartment to the bus stop. Slipping out from behind the big lemon tree growing in the Brown’s overgrown front yard, the perv who had been following me recently, almost trod on my heels, keeping pace as I walked.
“Go away!” I screeched, turning on him with mace in my hand. “If you don’t stop following me, I’ll spray you right in the face!”
The creep was wearing a mask and a white cap; he pulled up in shock when he saw I fully intended to follow through with my threat.
“I’ve got an appointment,” he stammered. “I thought we could go together.”
“What are you talking about,” I whimpered, fear oozing from my pores, soaking my thin shirt.
“I’m going where you’re going.”
“No, you’re not!” I cried, ineffectively.
Panic overcame me and I fled, flailing and running wildly towards my bus as it pulled up to the stop. The door flew open, and I launched myself hysterically on board.
“Quickly, close the door!” I pleaded. The door closed.
“Morning Madge,” greeted the driver.
“Did you see…?” I murmured breathlessly.
The bus driver shrugged and surged off — I stumbled into a nearby seat.
The bus was full of weirdos, all supposedly looking at mobile devices, but now and again, I noticed a pair of eyes flick up to check me out, then hastily return to a screen.
Several passengers had coffee cups and toast resting on trays in front of them. Weird!
I moved closer to the driver’s seat.
When we reached my stop, I fled toward a big brick building, the psychiatric hospital. As I ran, wild-eyed, with my hair flying in the wind, I glanced back to see a string of people pounding down the pavement after me.
The guy with the mask and cap was leading the charge.
Fatigue overcame me as I tried to focus on the man behind the desk. He seemed familiar. I racked my foggy brain trying to remember who he was. Hmm, middle-aged, thick black hair, coke-bottle glasses, pristine white coat.
He smiled welcomingly.
“Good morning,” he greeted. “May I call you, Madge?”
I nodded, wondering what else he might address me as. Perhaps, loony, crazy, cracked.
“Good morning, Wackadoodle.”
“What …?” I stammered in surprise.
“I said nothing,” replied Doctor Dingle, a smile playing in the corners of his mouth belied his statement. His bronze desk ornament was polished to perfection. I supposed it was displayed for patients who couldn’t remember his name.
“Sit, sit. On the couch. Put your legs up. Pull down your skirt woman, doctors are human too, you know!”
Alarm bells began to sound. I hadn’t yet made it to the couch and he was discussing my skirt position. What the ….?
Suppressing panic, I sat on the couch, paying attention to the whereabouts of my skirt hem.
“Better!” Doctor Dingle announced, eyes firmly fixed on my legs. “Tell me why you hate your mother.”
“I haven’t spoken about her, yet,” I announced, concern rising to my throat.
“Of course you have, you are always telling me you can’t stand the old bat.” Dingle looked at me with skepticism and began tapping his pen on the desk. Rat-a-tat tat. Rat-a-tat-tat.
“Can you not do that?” I snapped, glaring at his pen. The tapping ceased. “I haven’t seen you before. And I hate my mother because she is an old witch who tries to convince me I’m crazy.”
With sagging, tea-drenched tits.
“Enough!” screeched Dingle. “We don’t discuss bosoms here! Doctors are human, too, you know.” His eyes finally left my legs.
“I didn’t say anything about bosoms,” I objected. “I merely thought it.”
“Hah!” pontificated the psychiatrist, gazing at a somehow familiar Rolex on his left wrist. “The old witch is right. You are totally nuts! Always being watched, always being followed, always being mugged. You belong in a padded cell!”
Crippling anxiety paralyzed my brain, my heart rate accelerated. Fight or flight kicked in — I chose flight.
Leaping from the couch, I ran to the nearest door.
“Pull down your skirt,” screeched the psychiatrist. “Doctors are only human, you know!”
Flinging open the door and wrestling with my skirt hem at the same time, I knew with sudden dread, my terrible error.
I had escaped to a little bathroom! Inside was a dead man, crunched up in a bloody heap to make him fit the space now allotted to dead bodies.
I screamed and turned to face the so-called doctor.
“Who are you?” I whimpered in terror, tears streaming down my face.
With unexpected kindness, the pretend doctor reached out and patted my shoulder. I shrank back instinctively.
“I am your doctor, dear,” he soothed, leading me gently towards the couch. Sit down but don’t forget your hem.”
“I know, I know,” I replied weakly. “Doctors are only human.”
“Of course, Madge. Now, do you feel better?”
Surprisingly, a great calm had come over me. “I am feeling quite wonderful, thank you,” I replied, gazing at Dingle with affection. “Why did you kill that guy in the closet?” I reached out and patted my doctor’s hand.
“I killed him because he is a wanker with wanker questions. ‘Why did you kill your parents? When you were young, did you turn flies into ‘walks’ by tearing off their wings? What did you do to your neighbour’s dog?’ That sort of useless stuff.”
Dingle’s hand covered my hand. I sighed and leaned into his shoulder. “So, I’m mad, then?”
“Quite,” he confirmed. “They don’t keep you in places like this for weeks if you’re sane. And it’s likely you also have Stockholm Syndrome.”
“So you are holding me hostage,” I whispered, hope in my voice.
“Just until those big burly psych nurses turn up and bust into this room.”
I shuddered at the thought of losing the best doctor I had ever had. I snuggled up some more.
A sudden rap on the door disturbed my calmness.
“You’ll have to cut it short, Madden, you have visitors!” declared a burly voice. “Tell the doc your family is in the community lounge room. Make it snappy! Oh, and tell your ma to get her tit out of her tea!”
Something stirred in my hazy brain. I looked at Dingle with new eyes, understanding flooded my senses.
“You used to be my patient,” I murmured. “You stole the real Dingle’s watch when you snuffed him. You’re in big trouble,” I added. “Did you always hate psychiatrists?”
The imposter shook his head. “Never hated you, doc. You were the best until, well you know?” He twirled his finger next to his ear to indicate crazy. “Now, you’re my best friend in this place.”
“I’d better go visit them. They’re still trying to convince me I’d benefit from psychosurgery.” I released the imposter’s hand reluctantly. “My brother probably ordered me some tea and put poison in it.”
“Do you want me to kill him?” asked my captive.
“Yeah, if you could. All of them, if you don’t mind. Best do it before they discover the real Dingle in his bathroom.”
“You’re right,” he agreed, pulling on my skirt hem. “You should watch that,” he reminded me. “Wackadoodles are only human, too, you know!”
The doc is inciting all his crazies to go nuts:
