Siamese Tumor

George walked into the cosmetologist's waiting room. As he was on his way in there a crip and a skinhead walked out two steps away from each-other with their bandages on their tattoos.

A woman who reminded George of a porn-star he saw on the internet was looking away from the hall.

George walked into the room. He saw this place before. He was getting treated by someone he used to go to high-school with actually.

On the wall there was a cheap photoshopped certificate that read "Certified Graduate of Exactamundo University: Cosmetology, Proctology, Arachnophobia Specialist".

He knew Derek Smalls (now Derek Smalls, Ph. D. due to his self-schooling in forgery) was an entrepreneuring papers-guy but he'd really outdone himself this time. Maybe the doc could go back to school on the bulletin boards and get a degree in gastric studies to boost his ego-driven resume even further.

A door opened and an attractive nurse who looked like one of the Fly Girls dancers stepped to the side of the door she opened. Derek slid to the door like in the opening of "Risky Business" on his Pro-Keds sneakers. All that was missing was the music, a disco-ball, and possibly some glow-sticks.

When he stepped into the waiting room, the mother of a son she brought in for tattoo removal whooshed up from the trance that people were driven to by Derek's three inch tall mullet.

He would usually hypnotize people expertly with the mullet, his Texas Longhorns belt buckle, and his mutton chops (in that particular order). When they were entranced, they would dangle like marionettes while focusing on his props.

He exclaimed like an amphetamine-fueled traveling preacher, "The DOCTAH is IN!"

He continued to tell her, "Aaand yyoooouuu wiiillll give me threee-thousand dooolllaarrsss... In cents.... Does that make sense? Yeeees. Goood-"

"And rub the hernia ointment on that elbow immediately! STAT!"

Her head shook back and she retreaded to her fully conscious non-subliminal state.

He took her by the arm as she was frazzled by her changes in consciousness and handed her a tube full of three months supply of Vaseline. "Yes... That's good. See you next time... Very good now... You pay now... Bye now..." This would be enough to put a subliminal message into her.

Derek jumped on the couch of the waiting room a bit away from George. He pointed his fingers like guns and said, "Wazzzuupp!!"

"Um, hi."

"Let's go!"

He jumped off of the couch and into George's face. He took a dragon mask out from the back of his hospital-pants and put it on his own face. He did some "Boogeyman" motions with his hands and grabbed George's right hand. Then he skipped towards the utility room that he made into his office with George being yanked in tow in a very awkward manner.

"Okay! Now, you're here to see me today which tells me one good thing: You're not dead. I made that mistake twice already."

George glanced to his left and right in a nervous motion, back and forth.

"So, what's my name?"

"Um, Derek?"

"No! I have been converted to be a voodoo-cyber-priest by The Church of Goatse. Now my name is Ich bin ein Hasselhoff, known to my friends and relatives now as 'The Great Jelly Donut'."

"Okay."

"First medical question of the day: Are you sexually active?"

"Um, no."

"Is she my sister?"

"No." George shrugged.

"Is she my mom?"

"I don't think so."

"Is she my transsexual pet-sitter who babysits my tarantulas?"

"Huh?"

"Great. Now that we've gotten that out of the way, we'll get back to the important stuff: What is your problem?"

"I told you about the tumor I've had."

"You're not the guy with the prostate problem are you? I told him I never give freebies to my patients."

"Dude. I've known you for 26 years."

"And you're not my illegitimate father?"

"What??"

"Hmm. I don't recognize you. Let's get you on the gurney."

He lifted up George and bench-pressed him with one arm as if he was a wrestler. Then he set him down and did the running man dance.

"Now show me where it hurts..."

George opened up his shirt and under a flap of skin there it was: a human head with a tiny fetal arm coming out from its right. It made exclamations like Sam Kinison and had a rattle that normally four packs of cigarettes a day could give to a person.

"Hmm..." Derek said. In his most calm and clinical manner he said, "I remember what your problem is. It's $10,000. You clearly need to get it off your chest. Can't you see? And I remember telling you that you need to shoot yourself, but only after you write a will saying, 'I hereby bequeath my money to Derek Smalls (legal name: 'The Great Jelly Donut" Esquire), as well as my Playstation, Xbox, and Wii, and all possessions down to my lint shall be passed onto him.' Why haven't you followed my instructions? And you haven't picked up your prescription. It's for pure MDMA. I'm a serious physician who does group counseling Saturday nights. Why can't you just follow directions?"

He lanced the tumorous thing off of George's chest.