Like about 99.9% of America's adult population, I take drugs. These days they are prescribed by a licensed practitioner, unlike a few years ago when my practitioner was a guy named Kenny who lived in the woods with a long beard and a large, er, medicine cabinet.
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| THE CABINET OF DR. KENNY |
A big shout-out to Kenny, by the way, who is probably in charge of something at Pfizer. Kenny, if you're out there, remember me? I'm the guy who sat in the corner for hours on end, organizing my pocket lint.
But I digress. A few days ago I had a scary drug experience, next to which the nastiest unprescribed adventure pales: Aishwarya, my friendly neighborhood pharmacist (I believe her surname is "Costco") gave me the wrong prescription.
And I didn't know it for three days.
Sure, my pee was a color I haven't seen since the light shows at the Fillmore. And I swear that sparks were flying out of my ass, though no one else seems to have noticed. But I thought those were just side effects documented in those pamphlets that nobody reads ... and in the TV ads, right before the discredited artificial-heart guy tells me to ask my doctor if it's right for me: "Side effects are generally mild and may include psychedelic pee and sparks flying out of your ass."
Anyway, the whole experience took me back to those halcyon "We don't need no steenking prescriptions" days. We also didn't need no steenking HMOs ... and when was the last time you and your doctor sat around the shanty with his stash of Benadryl and got a good buzz on?
Paging Dr. Kenny!
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