HUMOR: Laughter not FDA-approved medicine

Daniel Walters

Issue date: 10/9/07

Occasionally someone asks me, "Daniel, if you could go anywhere in the world, where would it be? And you can't say 'Spokane'. That's what everyone picks."

I usually respond, "Wherever my heart leads me," because I'm sensitive like that.

What I rarely ever say is "to the hospital!" Maybe it's that I don't like all the needles, the blood, the vomit or the ubiquitous "deathy smell." Maybe it's that my childhood fear was "being accosted by Patch Adams." Maybe it's that I've been afraid of the color white ever since, as a toddler, Dad made a few bucks by putting me through a psychological experiment with a rabbit and shrill noise.

Fortunately, for the most part, I've been able to avoid such places. I have two strategies.

First, I'm a wuss. You'd be surprised how much this comes in handy. Friends would come up to me freshman year and say, "Daniel! We made a glider out of blue tape, spackle, and old copies of the 'Stall Street Journal'! All 20 of us are going to use it to jump of the Warren roof! Wanna come?! Even peer pressure's doing it!"

For a moment, I'd be tempted. But then the fear gland and the common sense gland would overpower the I'm-A-Stupid-Freshman gland and I'd say, "No… after extensive analysis that would be a poor Life Choice."

Secondly, I got all my sickness out of the way early on. For me, it wasn't the 5-second rule. It was the 15-second rule, with a 50-second If-Nobody's-Looking corollary. I could open an Egyptian cartouche, find a chunk of beef jerky inside and, as long as it's wrapped in papyrus or something, I'll chow down.

In doing so, I culled the weakness from my system. There's only like five white blood cells left, but they're the A-team of blood cells.

Eat antibody, Streptococcus!

But some people aren't quite as lucky. They have to navigate the labyrinth of the American Medical Establishment just to find out exactly how they're supposed to put their leg back, now that they've found it.

For a column on such a complicated issue it's important to be up to date on the latest medical research. So I did what I do best: watched a lot of television. Through this course of study I've learned that the typical conversation between two doctors sounds like this:

Dr. Earnest: WE NEED A CRASH CART AND 300 CC'S OF PLACEBOXICIN, STAT!

Dr. Caustic: "Placeboxicin? Great idea, Dr. Kevorkian. If he has Lupus, the smallest dose of Placeboxicin will cause his splanchnic ganglion to literally explode. Boom."

Dr. Earnest: "It can't be Lupus. You still have 40 more minutes to fill until you can reveal the right diagnosis."

Dr. Caustic: "How am I supposed to concentrate on diagnosing with this pretentious Indie music blaring in the background?"

Dr. Earnest: "Well, I don't know how you expect me to perform a cardiojurassic surgery when you cheated on me with the zany janitor?!"

Dr. Caustic: "Look. Just because they call me 'McGenie' doesn't mean I can answer your every wish. It's not easy looking like George Clooney! I have issues! I have subplots! I traded my people skills and happiness at a swap meet six years ago for a broken-down psyche, a damaged liver and an aching obsession for perfection. So don't come to me comparing your life to mine until you've had a scalpel slip on the operating table and kill the man you learned just moments before was your real father!"

(Beeeeeeeeeeeep)

Dr: Earnest: "Dude. I think your overwrought dialogue just killed the patient."

Dr. Caustic: "He'll just have to learn to live with that."

(Cue hugs and weepy montage.)

Obviously, our health care system is a mess.

Various Michael Moores suggest we need to look to other countries for health care help. Canada's always a popular one. Not only do Canadians never get sick, their medicine is extremely cheap. Where a bottle of Corporaximine might cost you $50 of real money in America, the Canadian knockoff would only cost two loonies, a toonie, a Canadian button coin, and half a flapjack. The downside is that their medicine has a horrible maple syrupy taste and the gruesome side effect of making you brutally polite.

Cuba is another positive example. They have some of the world's best medical care. They have to, what with all the gunshots their citizens sustain trying to escape. Cuban citizens were asked to choose which statement they agreed with more:

A) "Gee, Cuba's free, quality medical care sure is swell! Bless the beard of Castro!"

B) "Please sign me up for your Political Prisoner program."

Ninety-five percent of Cuban's chose (A) and those who chose (B) are now convicts, so we can't really trust them can we?

A few Americans choose to reject science altogether. They prefer "alternative" medicine. Where a common or "real" doctor may choose to treat your cyst with, say, an operation, the alternative homeopath might prescribe two teaspoons of dandelion fur in order to restore the "song of your soul." Alternative practitioners use such vaunted medical techniques as "bubble wrap therapy" and "kissing it to make it all better."

The more you study alternative medicine, the crazier it gets. "Doctor, I can't stop bleeding from these dozens of tiny lacerations! Ya gotta help me!"

"There's only one cure! Stabbing you with hundreds of little needles!"

Of course, each type of alternative practitioner has their own different panacea. Some like to attempt to heal people through things like magnets, which are especially effective on pacemakers. Chiropractors believe they can cure anything, including decapitation and racism, by punching you in the spine. Others swear by the healing power of interpretive dance, rearranging furniture or the natural rejuvenating properties of the McGriddle. (Although all of them, deep down, believe the real cure is smoking more pot.)

It's not really surprising that some people fall for such laughable quackery. Real medical research is inconsistent. First exposing yourself to massive amounts of gamma radiation is good for you and now it's bad for you?! Make up your mind, medical establishment!

Frankly, it's enough to make you sick.

Daniel Walters is the opinions editor and a senior majoring in communications and history. Contact him at daniel.walters@whitworthian.com.

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