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Sick phone with a Head Job



So there I was sitting quietly minding my own business when the phone squawked.

It didn't ring, it squawked like a duck with the flu. Which flu? How the hell do I know? There are so many hideous diseases getting around and I'm only a poor hypochondriac, not a doctor.

Speaking of the doctor, I showed him my leg last Tuesday. He said he wasn't impressed.

"No, no," I told him, "look there," and I pointed at the scaly red mark just below my knee.

"Is it skin cancer?"

"Tell me," asked the doctor, "When was the last time your knee was bathed in sunlight?"

"Hmm that would have been in 1979 at the beach just before sunset."

"Doesn't count."

"I was trying to look seductive for the guy in the tight cut off jeans."

"I don't want to know," said the doc.

"So it isn't cancer, what about that awful flesh eating disease, or leprosy?" I asked in my most serious whiny voice.

"It's a slight case of eczema, nothing to worry about. Put this cream on it." He handed me a small sample tube of ointment.

"This is the same stuff you gave me when I had a chafed dick," I told him.

"There is nothing wrong with your memory. Yes, it is the same white cream; the one you told me that when you rubbed it into your dick, it came straight out again." He chuckled. "I don't expect you will have that problem with your knee."

"I do hope not," I said and thanked him as I left.


The phone squawked again, bringing me back to the present.

"Hello?" I answered not really certain whether anyone was actually calling me.

"Do you want a job?" asked a male voice.

"A head job?" I inquired.

"Yeah, right. At least I know I dialled the right number. We need someone to do a shift tonight."

I was so excited. Someone had taken ill and they needed me to fill in at the cinema where I used to work, and the money would be more than welcome.

Thirty-six hours later, I am in agony. Every muscle in my body is revolting. Well that isn't really new, my muscles have never been my best feature. I don't remember work being this exhausting. I looked up the operator's handbook I got when I was born and sure enough there on page 547 is the warning about not going back to work after you retire, it will deplete what little energy you have left.

I laid on the bed breathing...after a fashion. I'd go to the doctor if I felt better.

If I live long enough I will type this up for my blog as a warning to others.

As for the phone, it doesn't squawk any more, I unplugged it.



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I'm still wondering about the whole, "head job" comment.Jason (the confused)
Perhaps I could show you Jason, if you ever visit Adelaide. :wub::wub: Don't worry about being confused, I constantly confuse people with my references to head jobs, whenever they ask if I want a job.It has become a kind of a way to recognise me, by seeing if I mention a head job in otherwise innocent conversation. Sad isn't it? :wub:
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Des: Good thing you didn't go back to the doctor. You'd simply have gotten another tube of white cream, and I'm not sure what you'd rub that on when the problem if flagging energy.Jason: Look on the bright side. Instead of ruing your lack of understanding Des' glib Aussie nonsense, look at it as inside knowledge for when you have a cute downunderer at the restaurant. Now you know how to talk to him, and, better yet, just what to say!C

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