Physician To The Stars

Richard’s parents had always hoped he would become a doctor. Unfortunately, it was a dream that he did not share. A lifetime of prodding and guilt can lead a person down almost any path, however, and so Richard had worked his way through medical school and residency with competency, if not enthusiasm.

As a student, his one moment of inspiration had come when he decided that he would base his practice in Toontown. He believed it would ensure a quiet, undemanding workload. After all, he reasoned, if your patients can have a piano dropped on their heads and then walk away, how serious could their medical issues be? Now, as he studied the case file that lay before him, he reflected on how naïve he had been. With a sigh, he raised his head and spoke to the sailor seated across from him.

“I’m afraid you have acromegaly,” he said softly. “It’s a disease which cause the pituitary gland to produce excess growth hormones. This often results in tumors that cause facial swelling and protuberances. That’s the reason your jaw is the way it is.”

Popeye chomped down on his pipe and was silent for a moment. “Well, blow me down,” he muttered.

“The good news is that the condition is treatable. Drug therapy can restore normal pituitary functions, and surgery can remove the tumor.” The doctor paused for a moment. “There’s another issue I think we should discuss. I’m a little concerned about your spinach dependency.”

The sailor looked indignant. “I don’t have a spinachk depensdensky,” he said sullenly.

“Mr. Eye, let’s face facts. You eat spinach for breakfast. You eat spinach for lunch. You eat spinach for dinner. Hell, you even smoke the damn stuff.” At this, the sailor sheepishly removed his pipe and hid it behind his back. The doctor continued. “Spinach is fine in moderation, but when it’s consumed in the sort of quantity that you regularly use, it represents a serious problem. I advise you to quit cold turkey.”

“Quitsk spinachk!” cried Popeye. “I’ll die!”

“You’ll die if you don’t,” said Richard matter-of-factly. “I’m going to give you the address of a clinic that can help you with your withdrawal symptoms. Also, I recommend joining a support group to help you when you feel the need to use.” Richard rose from his desk and led the sailor to the door. “I’ll have my receptionist schedule an appointment to begin treatment for the pituitary disorder. I wish you luck.”

Richard closed the door and returned to his desk. He hung his head in his hands. At that instant, the door to his office burst open. In stomped an angry black mallard, followed by the receptionist. She apologized profusely to the doctor. “I’m sorry, Doctor,’ she said. “He refuses to wait for his appointment.”

“You’re darn tootin, Florenthh Nightmare,” the mallard shouted. He covered the desk and the doctor with a fine spray of saliva with every “s”.

“It’s okay, Miss Foray,” said Richard. “I’ll take care of it.” The nurse withdrew and closed the door. Richard looked calmly at the duck. “Now, Daffy, what’s the matter? You seem upset.”

“You’re darn right I’m upthet!” The mallard was enraged and his lisp was even more pronounced than usual, something Richard would have thought impossible. “Ith that plathtic thurgeon you referred me to! Just look at me!”

Richard stared at the duck. He looked him over carefully. He was no beauty contest winner, but he looked a darn sight better than he had when Richard had first seen him. His crossed eyes had been corrected, his rubbery limbs had been strengthened and converted to a normal length, and his beak, which had been a monstrosity when the mallard first hit town, had been shortened and bobbed. Richard could see no reason for the duck to be displeased. “You look great, Daffy. What’s the problem?”

“Thith ith the problem,” hissed Daffy, and he gave his beak a smart slap. Richard watched as it spun around the duck’s head and slowly settled to a stop on the back of his skull.

“Oh, my,” said Richard.

Daffy reached behind him and pulled the beak back into proper alignment. “Look at me,” he wailed. “I’m a monthter! How can I thtar in movieth when my beak fallth off with every take?”

Richard tried to calm the duck, but it was nearly impossible. He was livid. “Daffy, I’m sure there’s something we can do…..”

“Damn right there ith,” snapped the duck, cutting him off. “I’m thuing you for malpractith. I’ll make thure that theepskin never theeth the light of day again.” He turned on his webbed foot and headed for the door. “I’ll thee you in court, Jack!” With that, the duck was gone.

Richard rose and exited his office. He walked quickly into the reception area and called out to Miss Foray. “Get my attorney on the phone. Tell him I need to speak to him right away. Also, I’ll need to talk to my insurance agent.” He took off his lab coat, which was soaked with mallard spit, and handed it to the girl. "Have this sent to the laundry as well."

“Yes, doctor,” she said. “Oh, here are your messages.” She handed Richard a stack of pink notes and he thumbed through them quickly. Mighty Mouse was calling concerning potential side effects of the steroids he had been using. Droopy needed a refill on his anti-depressant prescription. He stopped and held one out to the receptionist. “What is this?”

“Oh, that’s Mr. Coyote,” Miss Foray said dismissively. “He stopped in and wanted to see you. I told him you were booked solid and that he should call for an appointment in the future.”

Richard sighed heavily. “He can’t call for an appointment, he suffers from hysterical vocal paralysis,” the doctor said. “If he returns, I want to see him immediately. I think he needs to be referred to a psychiatrist. This business with the bird is becoming an unhealthy obsession.”

“Yes, doctor.”

“Cancel my appointments for the remainder of the day, and put the attorney and the insurance man through as soon as they call.” The doctor turned and slunk back into his office. He sat heavily in his chair and pulled open his desk drawer. He snatched the aspirin bottle, thumbed off the cap and shook two into his hand. He dry swallowed them, grimacing at the taste, and leaned back in his chair. The phone rang, and he answered it. He listened for a moment, rubbing his temples with his free hand.

“Yes, Mr. Disney,” he said. “Yes, the test results are in. I’m afraid it’s a venereal disease.” He held the phone away from his ear as the voice on the other end let out a stream of profanity. He returned the receiver to his ear as the invective faded away. “No, no, it’s not serious. Yes, I’ll be discrete….Yes, I can meet you at your home this evening. We can clear this whole thing up with a shot of penicillin and a dash of turpentine. Fine…..I’ll see you then.”

He hung up the phone and shook his head. The tradition of the casting couch was a long and fabled one, but he never understood why these moguls always failed to take even the most rudimentary of precautions. He hoped Disney would think twice this time. He had, after all, gotten what he deserved.

Everyone knew Minnie was a tramp.