Next Patient, Please!

    Lost in a private little fog and mumbling Latin verbs to himself, it wasn't until he reached his office door the next morning that Doctor Fraud noticed his new secretary. He noted that she sat straight and very primly, indicating a strict upbringing fraught with daily spankings, likely - he thought - with hair brushes on her bare bottom. He clucked thoughtfully at the image, and raised his briefcase to hold it in front of him at waist height.

     She met his gaze levelly through her heavy-framed glasses, which he knew to be a sure sign of conflicted sexuality. "Good morning, Doctor; I'm the temp," she said in the clipped and measured tone he immediately recognized as psychotic. "I'm insane." "Of course you are," he answered grandly, impressed by her candor. "Corporal punishment applied regularly by a stern and firm hand to taut, naked buttocks can be quite traumatic. Now, Miss, what is you name please?" She flashed him the look of confused surprise he often saw following his lightning diagnoses. "But I told you, Doctor. Anne Swayne."

     Doctor Fraud smiled patiently and shook his head tightly as he entered his office. She was forgetful, too, he thought with compassion. He was feeling particularly helpful and professional, ever since he'd successfully psychoanalyzed the mailman through his front window that morning. "You have issues, don't you?" he had declared as the mailman reached the front door. "Yes, Sir," the troubled man had confessed, handing over two monthly magazines. "These."

    He reached his desk, removed his trousers, and folded them neatly before placing them in the third left-hand drawer. He settled contentedly in his chair and buzzed the mad temp to send in his nine o'clock. "I want help, man," she pleaded through the tinny intercom speaker.

    "Of course you do, Miss. It's likely your derriere still feels phantom lashes from that steady, loving hand, yes? Maybe later, if we have an opening," answered the doctor.

   The troubled temp gave him a desperate look as she held open the office door to admit a lanky, well-dressed man in his mid-thirties, who waved easily to him. "Elpmann. Ivan. Glad to meet you, doc," smiled the patient as he sank comfortably into the red leather chair and immediately clammed up. To set him at ease, the doctor pointed to his newest clock, a cartoony bird-house with a small red door. "And every fifteen minutes, Woody Woodpecker pokes out," laughed the doctor engagingly, "Which reminds me of the joke about Pinocchio and Viagra.

    "Now, how may I help?"

The End

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