I finally got through to my Neurologist. He says that he’s real busy and to leave him alone and that I’ve got a lot of nerve.

Well, at least I got my diagnosis.

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My left knee replacement is now almost 12 years into its 10-year life expectancy—and I am sorely in need of having the replacement replaced.

Meanwhile, my right knee is in no better shape, and has been aching for a replacement of its own. Right tells Left that it’s tired of carrying the load, handling the cane…and after all, Left already got one, so now it’s Right’s turn.

I tell them to go ahead battle it out, just leave me out of it.

And no hitting below the belt.

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My doctor wants me to go to another doctor for something he says he doesn’t do. I told him I don’t go to doctors nearly as much as the doctors I do go to want me to go to the doctor. Because the more doctors I go to, the more doctors I’ll have to send me on to other doctors, and before you know it I’ll have gone through all the doctors—and be referred right back here to you. Why not just save ourselves the trip?

Now my doctor wants me to go to another doctor and stay there.

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I asked a psychiatrist if he knew the first person who’d thought to use Ritalin—essentially a stimulant—to treat hyperactivity in children.

He asked me who was the first person who’d thought to eat an artichoke.

Must have had that question before.

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My knee replacement is wearing out, and I’m looking for somebody to sue.

There’s the surgeon of course. The guy who did the replacement ten years ago and told me the knee would last ten years. He did a good job, though, and he’s dead. Not a good prospect.

The guys who helped him, maybe. Doctors. They’ve got lots of dough, haven’t they? And there were lots of other people in the room, too. Scalpels could have been dropped. Masks can slip. Someone could have failed to scrub up properly after that Double-Whopper for lunch.

Or how about the obvious? The manufacturer of this criminally defective, morally reprehensible piece of [mild expletive]—the design of which doesn’t even remotely compare to what you can get off the shelf today. (I’ll bet there are some attorneys who could win that one.)

I think the Physical Therapist could probably have made me scream more, although I didn’t think so at the time. It would be stupid to sue her, though. She had bigger biceps than me and might decide to pay me a visit for another “therapy” session. Besides, she was nice, too, and truly cared about helping people get better. No, I’ll leave her alone.

Kathy says this idea is nuttier than squirrel droppings. That none of those people are to blame if I decided to lug that old 27″‘ console TV up into the attic. Or wrestle the removable bench seat back into the Astro without help. She says the sticky front door didn’t need to be hauled off its hinges, either, only to put it back even more sticky than before.

I soundly dismiss that argument, and remain undeterred. Somebody’s always to blame. Somebody who’s not me. It’ll probably work even better if I can put together a Class Action suit. Maybe I’ll try that. Shouldn’t be too hard to find people wiling to sign on for a chance to win a huge windfall they didn’t earn, and don’t deserve.

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I’ve been suffering a little geranium of the cranium so I went down to the head doctor.

He examined me from stem to stern, then opined that I was either a knuckle-head, a hare-brained numbskull, or a bonehead. I told him that sounded alarming, and asked if those were all valid clinical possibilities. He said no—just the product of knowing me for years.

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