So I went to the psychiatrist the other day and he said ‘Wallace, young man! You have to get off the heroin!’
‘Why,’ I asked. ‘Will it really make me go blind?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Look, see this flaming heroine of yours you got ‘ere? Now I know our Holbeck prostitutes are intrepid lasses, and they’re used to unappealing clients, but even this girl has her limits!’
‘Ah OK,’ I said. ‘Is wanking OK though?’
‘No. If you keep churning yourself dry morning, noon and night, you won’t be able to see past the tip of yer own head, as my mother used to say.’
‘That’s funny,’ I said. ‘I don’t think anybody else has done either for the past say, 30 years or so!’
‘By nobody else, does that include my mother?’
‘Maybe. I couldn’t possibly comment.’
‘I don’t know, I’m kind of feeling a bit choked up hearing about your late mother.’
‘Eh up! Less o’ the salty comments, lad! That said, when all’s done and dusted, she was always was that little bit later than me, put it that way! Very bad worker. I always finished much sooner, because putting your nose to the grindstone too much kinda stinks, dunt it! Eh?!’
Mildly underwhelmed by this tedious session, I went to go. I used to be in very high spirits when I went to psychotherapy; but by now, I think the magic had gone.
‘Oh by the way,’ he said, wagging his long, dainty, mildly elongated finger in warning.
‘Yes?’ I blinked, trying to pull my arse out of this boring shithole at long last.
‘Wallace, well, oof! Oof! How to say!’
‘Go on, you really have a habit of drawing these things out. Give it to me clean ‘n’ sweet, brother!’
‘Sorry Wallace, but you have got to stop masturbating.’
‘Why,’ I asked, ‘will it really make me go blind?’
‘Like right now! Without a second’s delay!’
‘Why,’ I asked again, ‘will it really make me go blind?’
‘O’ course not, ya daft twat! But I’ve got a beautiful, firm, sturdy, patent-leather sofa here, and I don’t want it going soft.’
‘Well, if you want someone else to boss around next Friday evening, fill yer boots,’ I muttered.
‘Eh now! Don’t get a cob on, lad! Ah mean, not to be a dick about it or anything, young man! But the last time someone came on us leather, it took me about, I don’t know, five minutes to clean. Me being a diligent worker and all that; not to mention the biggest, bestedest, rugged old bruiser you’re ever likely to meet in your life!’
‘I can’t promise you not to cum on your leather boots. In fact, I can’t promise you anything at all. I don’t expect to be coming here ever again. You can shove my money up yer arse!’ I said, as I left.
‘Well, funny that!’ he smirked, finally raising his dainty hands for one final swipe. ‘That’s exactly what your last girlfriend said.’
The heroin joke is inspired by a friend who shall remain nameless, purely because his original heroin joke was much cleaner than my version… which is sheer filth! Completely out of character, of course!
UPDATE: 06 JULY 2018
I just remembered that this is a kind of satire story we don’t have enough of.
Do you have any ideas for medical humour; clean or grubby? Try sending them to Brian K. White: firstname.lastname@example.org