HUMOR

Can I Make an Appointment Or Shall I Just Die?

My existence seems to upset you

“This is an automated message. If you are dying or completely fucked up, please call 911. If you are in emergencyish condition, please go to your nearest Emergency Room. If you wish to make an appointment with your doctor, please use the online system located on our website and never ever call us again you dumb fuck.”

An obnoxious beep molested my ear hole and I hung up the phone.

Apparently, my doctor’s office really likes it when I call them.

Sighing, I pulled up the website on my phone and located the “If you really, really have to make an appointment because you’re an annoying piece of shaft, click here” icon.

Luckily for me, I am a piece of shaft.

The screen read, “Please log in to make an appointment.”

After sixteen attempts to remember my password, (adding a number one and an exclamation point to the name of each pet I’ve ever had), I reset my password. It only involved sending them a small slice of my liver and attending a negotiation meeting with the Norwegian embassy.

Finally, I logged in.

And immediately forgot my new password.

A message popped up on the screen.

“No more appointment requests can be made today. Please try again tomorrow.”

What is this Rumplestiltskin bullshit?

I glanced at the time in the corner of the phone screen — 10:03 AM. I tapped on the website tab. It read, “Appointment requests can be made between 8:00 AM and 4:00 PM.”

What happened? Bad vibes today?

Frustrated, I abandoned my mission.

The following morning, I awoke with the birds chirping like the motherfuckers they are and rushed through my morning routine. At 8 AM, I was ready.

I logged in.

“Please fill out a request form to make an appointment.”

I entered my details at lightning speed — name, date of birth, address, eyeball circumference, number of pigeons I can wrestle, and my preferred death date.

Then I was asked about the nature of my issue that deemed me obnoxious enough to ask for a doctor’s appointment. As I began typing, my screen froze.

“No more appointment requests can be made today. Please try again tomorrow.”

The fuck did you just say, Bollock?

I refreshed my screen. And again. And again.

“No more appointment requests can be made today. Please try again tomorrow.”

I glanced at the time in the corner of my computer screen — 8:02 AM.

And then I murdered everyone.

Rage fueled my body as I reached for my phone and called the doctor’s office. I was greeted by the same message as before which I patiently listened to while whispering threats into the phone.

At the end of the message, after the ragey beep, the automated voice continued with, “If you are still on the line like a fucking chode, and you need help because you were born without a face, please hold for an assistant.”

Get ready to assist the fuck out of this chode.

The music began. Thirteen minutes later as the music continued, I ravaged a whole, raw broccoli head to stop me from opening my front door and screaming into the street.

Not sure how broccoli got in my house.

Finally, the music stopped and the old “Bring, bring,” sounded from the phone. I grabbed my notes because no one enters a phone conversation without practicing it at least twice, and I waited.

After a handful of rings, the phone went dead.

I haven’t seen my soul since.

After three more failed attempts to speak to someone on the phone and cutting a hole in my trash can in protest, I put my sick daughter in the car and drove to the doctor’s office.

With a crying toddler on my hip, I marched into the reception.

Kicking the door in felt like a tad much.

I dodged the large machine in the doorway that was covered in signs — “Check in here,” and headed for the reception desk enclosed in plastic shields.

Henry VIII must be inside.

The plastic shields were covered in signs instructing patients to check in using the online system. I moved around, trying to see the receptionist through the signs. Finally, I managed to find a peephole.

Are we in Amsterdam?

“Hello,” I said.

The receptionist turned her head to gaze at me.

After a few seconds of silence, she said, “Hello,” with a sigh.

So I tore the corner off one of her signs.

“Can I make an appointment for my daughter, please?”

“You need to use the online system t-”

Fucking no.

“Yeah, I tried that. It timed out after two minutes.” I said.

She squinted her eyes and replied, “Once we reach the maximum number of requests for the day, our system shuts down. We have no more appointments today.”

So what is everyone else supposed to do? Burn some sage, rub a kangaroo’s nut on their forehead, and hope for the best?

“But my daughter is sick and she needs to see a doctor,” I stated.

The receptionist forced a smile and said, “Would you like me to see if I can squeeze your daughter in today?”

No, I’m just here for the peepshow.

“Yes, please.”

She tapped on her computer and then without looking at me, said, “There is an available appointment at 3:15 PM today.”

Oh, look how that magically appeared.

I agreed to the appointment, confirmed my details, and reluctantly thanked the titslap as I turned to leave.

She shouted after me, “When you come back, remember to check in using the online system.”

Oh no, we’re going to do this shit all over again, Henry.