Calhoon C. Worthington, Pshyciatrist

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  No Houses
A rather self-absorbed, greedy psychiatrist!

Submitted: July 04, 2015

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Submitted: July 04, 2015




He stared at the 'final notice' letter he had just opened, and threw it toward the waste paper basket beside his desk. "Leach-bastards!" he screamed in frustration. He had been spending, spending, spending, on nothing but the promise of future earning from his new private psychiatry practice he'd recently opened, upon his graduation from college. But so far, the bell over his door to announce a customer had remained silent, and he was starting to get desperate. He'd long ago maxed out his credit cards, and was hoping that someone would be sufficiently f****d in the head to seek his council.


And so, he wasn't in the best of moods when the bell chimed, and into his office stepped a middle-aged woman holding a soaked handkerchief to red-rimmed eyes. "Can I help you ma'am?" he managed to say, through gritted teeth.

"I hope so doctor. I need to talk to somebody."

"Well, you came to the right place, why don't you have a seat and tell me what's on your mind?"

"I'll stay standing, if you don't mind."

Sit your ass down, you messed up luna-lady! he thought. I don't have time for this shit! Then he caught himself--he had an empty bank account, and the creditor-hounds were snapping at his heels, he needed this client! "Whatever makes you feel the most comfortable." Now, first thing first. Can I have your bank account number, you know, for my files?

"Yes, thank you, and let me start off by saying I really can't afford this. Times have been difficult. I was hoping you might give me some kind of a discount?"

He felt what little hope he had of a big payday deflate like a balloon. Disgust flickered briefly across his face before he replied, "Yeah, tell me about it."

"Well, my husband recently was laid off from his job, and..."

"No, never mind, now what did you want to talk to me about?"

"Oh, yes, it's my son, he never comes over to visit, and when I call over to his place, he never answers the phone."

He was still pissed, as this woman wanted him to help her for basically nothing. "Tell me, madam, does he have caller I.D?"

"Well yes, but..."

"But what? Do you need a baseball bat upside your thick head to see the obvious? I've only been talking to you for a few painful, agonizing minutes, and I'll tell you, that's what I'd do!" He knew that was exactly what he shouldn't have said, but, damn it, but it was too late to go the politically-correct route. This broad was the kind who would throw nickels around like 3-ton man-hole covers.

The woman looked at him in stunned silence. "Excuse me?"

"Oh, I think I see the problem, your deafer than shit! Take the cotton out of your fricking ears and try listening for a change--give your pie hole a rest, huh?"

"Well, I never!"

"I would advise you to, and the sooner the better. A good nude Man-Which will help to loosen you up."

She gave him a withering look, and stomped to the exit. He couldn't resist one final zinger, it was too easy. 'Careful, don't let the door hit you on your fat ass on your way out, replacing that door ain't cheap!"

She slammed open the door, and angrily disappeared into the sun light. It slowly closed on it's hinges, leaving him in gloom once again, a gloom which matched his dark mood. How could he get those creditor-bastards off his back? 


The End



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