My Surgeons Specialty

My doctor is a surgeon, a man of know-how and expedience. I set before you now his methods from personal experience: When, to my despair, I developed ED, he transplanted me another and quipped: It may not always rise to the occasion, it’s from a cadaver. I turned to excessive drinking, so he advised without a quiver: “Jaundiced skin and burning bile, I fear, are symptoms of a diseased liver. With Murphy’s law on a roll, I developed diabetes, so he took me aside: “Your pancreas, I feel, would serve science better in formaldehyde.” When stomach aches increase along with mortifying diarrhea, he said: “Which would you prefer removed: your stomach or your rear.” A head-on car collision left me all but paralyzed and one ear deaf. “Let me operate, you won’t complain,” he whispered in my one ear left. Reduced to a living carcass or cadaver, he saved the worse for last: your arms and legs need amputating, the gangrene has spread too fast. But don’t lose hope, please, and try to tone down the loud hysterics. I’ll have you walking in no time with state-of-the-art prosthetics.