Plastics

People suck.

Especially god-doctors.
In south-west Florida, where I live, there’s big business in plastic surgery. Let me amend that: there’s big business in all medical procedures. This guy, along with many of his colleagues, even advertises on billboards, in case you have urgent need for sterilization as you drive the interstate.

Doctors, therefore, form a considerable chunk of The Boss’s Limousine’s clientele, a mixed blessing for we drivers. The qualities you want in a medical professional often make them pains in the arse as passengers – decisiveness, attention to detail and thoroughness are great in the operating room. In the back seat of a limousine those characteristics become peremptory, crabby and thoroughgoing, which makes for a horrible drive.

Prior to collecting one doctor, a woman, from Tampa airport, The Boss said to be careful, because none of the other drivers liked her. Jessica, our only lesbian chauffeur, even called her a cow – in fact, she called her a fucking cow. Holding my sign at the base of the escalators, Madam Doctor made herself known, and I nearly burst out laughing. She had one of the worst face-lifts I have ever seen, rivalling even this little shop of horrors.

[Redacted photo of that Wildenstein woman or similar.]

In one of God’s little jokes, it turned out that she is herself a plastic surgeon, a decision she must contemplate with irony looking in the mirror every morning.

My laughter soon turned to salty tears as she berated me first for activating the air conditioning, and then for the roadworks that were slowing our progress along I-275.

“How long will this last for?” she asked in exasperated tone.

“I’m sorry Doctor Botch, I’ll phone the folks in charge and get it stopped immediately.”

As I said, simultaneously controlling, impatient and stupid. Just what you want in your medical professional.

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