The Perfect Life #37 by Dr. Perfect
Modern Medicine and Postmodern Problems
Dear Dr. Perfect,
I shut my hand in the dishwasher at work. It really hurts. Might be broken, definitely burned. I can’t file worker’s comp because of a warrant out for my arrest. How do I find affordable medical treatment?
Not Tom Actro, that is definitely not my name.
I believe you wrote me before after getting your foot caught in one of those big, blue mailboxes. Then there was the time you got your head stuck in the engine of an ’86 Camaro. That could have been another Tom Actro, but I’m beginning to see a pattern here.
Dishwashers, like many unassuming appliances, can be dangerous. The other day, my toaster oven burnt my bagel to a crisp. This inexcusable act was made even more appalling by the fact that I had it on the normal settings. I chucked it into a river that very morning. There are consequences for screwing up my breakfast.
One time, I nearly tripped over the cord to my “bubble bliss” foot massager. Water spilt everywhere. And don’t get me started on tanning booths. Maintaining a glow doesn’t come easily. You’re better off steering clear of dishwashers.
There was this movie about these kids who survived a terrible incident due to one of them having a premonition of their collective deaths. Fate, however, caught up with them in a series of gruesome, accident-prone killings. I believe it was called Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. You don’t want to end up like one of those kids.
I recommend immediate self-isolation for three weeks, watching reruns of Good Times, and eating sliced pears for nourishment. You’ll be off the smack in no time.
There’s no shame in having a warrant. My perfect endeavors rarely involve run-ins with the law, but I can attest to the occasional slip-up, embezzlement and/or back-alley knife fight to find oneself under the full, suffocating weight of our legal system.
Chin up, friend. Any number of seedy walk-in clinics are available to assist for a relatively nominal fee. You just need to know the right places to look. My own deductibles are through the roof, which has me considering Haitian Vodou priests as an alternative source of medical care. They’ll also conjure you up an impressive love potion guaranteed to end up in tragic irony. Fun times.
It’s time we reclaim our standing amongst the machines. One day, they’re slamming our hands into their doors. Next thing we know, it’s an all-out cyborg apocalypse. Get that hand checked out or get used to doing one armed push-ups. I do about five reps each morning, preparing for the coming robot wars. Humankind will need you then, Tom.