An Open Letter to the Old Battleaxe Receptionist at my Kids’ Pediatrician’s OfficeDear Battleaxe,
Although I realize that this letter is a fruitless attempt at working through my disdain for old battleaxes who are:
1) Ignorant of Italian opera singers
2) Ugly, bereft of common courtesy, void of intellect beyond that of an empty can of Green Giant corn niblets.
I feel that I must try, Battleaxe, I must try, if only to somewhat quell the burning obsession to ruminate that I unfortunately suffer with. You see, when I feel that someone has been rude, unjust, or just plain battleaxe-y, it eats me up inside. I think about people like you, worry over people like you, and oftentimes mentally kick myself as regard my not saying the right thing at the right time, e.g., knocking your balding, badly permed skull into submission with a sarcastic retort or stinging affront.
There is no existing court that would convict the likes of you, and that is unfortunate. You and your ilk should be required to stand before a jury of your peers who will deliberate on your wicked behavior, and once a guilty verdict has been passed, a stern but affable judge who has forty years’ experience in proper decorum law, will sentence you to death by hanging. Or, if you throw yourself on the mercy of the court, a more lenient punishment requiring you to undergo behavioral therapy consisting of two weeks in the stocks, followed by a good old fashioned scarlet letter A -- which, of course, stands for “asshole” -- tattooed upon your forehead.
Alas, this court will only ever exist in my dreams, but due to my enormous imagination and thirst for rectification, I shall hereby call my court to order…
Abridged Fantasy -- wouldn't want to strain your already weak neurons, now would we?
Conan O‘Brien: All rise for the honorable Judge Ms. Lori.
Gavel: Bang bang.
Judge Ms. Lori: You may all be seated. Will the prosecution please call your first witness.
Prosecutor: Larry Young, is it true that at approximately twelve-thirty p.m. on March fifteenth, your wife, Judge Ms. Lori, approached the reception desk with the intent to make known your children’s presence in the waiting room?
Prosecutor: And is it true, Mr. Young, that your wife behaved in her usual gracious manner?
Prosecutor: Now, Mr. Young, would it be fair to say that the battleaxe at the reception desk caused your son undue stress when the battleaxe, inpatient with your wife’s apologetic explanation as to why your son would not comply with the allegedly required urinalysis, bared her teeth, retrieved a pee receptacle from some mysterious pee receptacle drawer beside her desk, and shrieked, for all to hear within the waiting room, “BRANDON! YOU MUST GO IN THE CUP!”
Prosecutor: I have no further questions.
Judge Ms. Lori: You may call your next witness.
Prosecutor: Brandon, how old are you, son?
Brandon: This many!
Prosecutor: Tell me, Brandon, did the mean old battleaxe scare you?
Brandon: YES! I didn’t want to go pee-pee in the cup, even when Mommy promised me TWO candy bars if I did. But the scary monster lady didn’t care that I cried oh-so-many-tears.
Prosecutor: I see. Now, did your mommy say that it was okay if you didn’t go pee-pee in the cup? That it was okay, because your big sister, Veronica, wouldn’t either when she was your age?
Brandon: Absolutely. It was explained to me that the doctor wasn’t concerned with the lack of a urine specimen. Apparently, a urinalysis is necessary only in cases of obvious health concerns, or suspected atypical conditions, not in routine well-visits for toddlers.
Prosecutor: My goodness, Brandon, you have an extraordinary vocabulary for someone your age!
Brandon: I like Pokemon!
Judge Ms. Lori: Overruled.
Prosecutor: Brandon, did your mommy, in order to appease the old battleaxe as well as to avoid further public humiliation, then coerce your daddy to take you into the bathroom while she finished filling out ridiculously unnecessary paperwork -- paperwork that had been filled out time and time again for the past ten years, thus causing your mommy extreme agitation?
Brandon: Yes. But Mommy also tried to be nice to the scary prune-lipped harridan… When the battleaxe was talking to her cohorts about Italian opera singers, she was so obviously putting on airs, she forgot the name of her supposed favorite -- my Mommy, in an effort to be helpful, butted in their conversation with “Oh, do you mean the blind one?” and the battleaxe turned toward Mommy with a scowl and said icily, “Blind? What ever do you mean?” And Mommy replied, “Andrea Bocelli? The blind tenor?”
The battleaxe ignored Mommy, then shoved some weird electronic signature thing at her, without explaining what it was, and when Mommy just stood there, perplexed and embarrassed, the battleaxe said sarcastically, “Um…You sign it?”
Defense: I object!
Judge Ms. Lori: Fuck off, bucky. Court is in recess. Actually, I think I’ll just adjourn altogether.
Defense: Your Honor! This is unconscionable! What about my client’s right to due process?
Judge Ms. Lori: [grabs crotch] Here’s your due process, counselor. Think I’ll skip right to the verdict. Foreman, what say you?
Jury Foreman: Guilty on all counts.
Judge Ms. Lori: Good enough for me. Will the defendant please rise? I sentence you to two weeks in the stocks, whereupon the good citizens of Rochester, New York may freely pelt your miserable old face with wet sponges and the contents of Nic Tahou’s Dumpster. Following two weeks of stocks and public-pelting, you shall be tattooed on the forehead with a garish red “A,” so administered by Big Fat Sweaty Joe, premier tattoo artist and ex-Marine of questionable mental capabilities.
May God have mercy on your soul.
P.S. I enjoyed gloating when the doctor good-naturedly confirmed my belief that the urine specimen was of no great importance. My son did not have to pee in the cup despite your wholly irrational and possibly traumatizing demands. Oh, and the next time you try to appear knowledgeable about something you are painfully ignorant of, might I suggest you simply nod your head and feign interest instead of opening your wrinkly anus of a mouth?