Friday, November 20, 2009

People You Never Want To Be Hot

Dentist. When I got my wisdom teeth pulled out at NYU's house of discount dentistry, my student doctor was pretty bangin. This was problematic because he kept making all of these jokes and I couldn't laugh or even talk and then he pulled my teeth out and my face looked like the kid from "Rocky," at which point I concluded that hitting on him was futile. So I decided to make the best of the situation and hit him up for some Vicadin. Silver linings, I find them.

Gyno.
This needs no further explanation.

Bodega Guy. When I lived in Little Italy, my bodega guy used to always ask me out and I never said yes and/or understood why. They see you at your absolute worst; when you're sick, when you're crazy wasted, when you haven't slept for two days, when you're too lazy to cook so you get a bag of heat peanuts and a Guiness for dinner as I did Monday, the list goes on and on. One time, around 7am, I tried to return a six-pack of frozen beer to my bodega that I hadn't even purchased from there. Took me a solid ten minutes of arguing with the dude before I figured it out. Another occasion, I had a sandwich thrown point-blank in my face. If any of these guys were even remotely attractive I would have to walk an extra three blocks to an uglier-person operated one.

Pharmacist. I had shingles a few years back, which is essentially chicken pox for grownups and who doesn't want those again. They hurt like a bitch and doctors don't know why people get them and there's really nothing you can do but wait them out. The medication they give you for this, I think just for kicks, is Valtrex. This prescription is not only really fun to get filled (since making people think you have herpes is a great conversation starter) but it also makes you want to spew everywhere I discovered! What Washington really needs to do is figure out a away to tack a No Hot Pharmacist rider onto the healthcare overhaul crap. Believe.

Cousins. I'll be honest, I have a couple of cousins that make me entertain thoughts of eloping to backwoods Kentucky, but if I ever decide to get on board the baby express, I'd rather my children have the correct amount of fingers, toes and genetic mutations. Before you put your judgy pants on and call me out for my lax incest policy, just be happy I didn't say siblings.

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