The Drugs Don't Work, They Just Make Me Terse
Dear Medical Science
Yeah, it's me again, that short-arsed wretch with the sore foot that won't stop whinging about it.
But this time I'm serious because I'm seriously pissed off with the drugs you're giving me (mostly in packets marked "For Circus Animals Only"). Surely - I ask - it is not outside your wit to give me anti-inflammatory drugs that do not:
- Leave me firing the brown laser down the toilet for a solid twenty-four hours
- Bring me out in itches that leave colleagues convinced that I have a) fleas, b) scabies or c) fleas with scabies
- Give me weird dreams that have me sitting bolt upright at two in the morning, screaming at Mary Magdalene to "Watch out for that shark! It's a lion!"
- Leave me with the world's worst super-power, viz: The ability to draw dinosaurs really, really quickly (example enclosed)
- Grow an extra head on the back of my hand that supports Spurs
Luckily, the extra head is on my arse-wiping hand, so - being a huge fan of irony - I am not too fussed.
But, really, I'm getting a bit pissed off. Could you just send me a crate of whisky, so I can spend the next six weeks or so in such a drunken stupor that I don't notice the pain? Those are side-effects I can live with.