Who’s Your Ear, Nose & Throat Doctor?

Come on, I want to hear you say it. Who is it? Yeah that’s right, I am. I’m your fucking Ear, Nose & Throat doctor. Those are my organs. I own those innards. You know what that certificate on the wall means? Not the one that says MAYOR OF LARYNXTOWN, the other one, from the college. It means that I can flush your earwax with one hand tied behind my back. That I can radiate your thyroid with a blindfold on. That I can double-honk your deviated septum before you have time to hop up on the examination table. Don’t fucking test me. You will get double-honked.

You like waiting rooms? Well, this must be your lucky day because I have one of those. Sorry if the anatomical posters of ear, nose and throat diseases are a little too graphic for you, but you’re in my house now. I mean that in an intimidating, urban way and not just because I live upstairs—which is very fucking convenient by the way. But if you’d rather see adorable posters about boo-boos and ouchies instead of retropharyngeal abscesses, then you should have packed your lunchbox and gone to a fucking pediatrician.

Are you having fun playing with those plastic 3-D models of ears, noses and throats? That’s kind of like what I do, except instead of cute little plastic models, it’s living human tissue, and instead of playing, I’m fucking working, and instead of fun, it’s fucking not fun, it’s serious.

Here’s a little story I don’t tell many people about the kind of tri-organ-healing mercenary you’re dealing with. A few years back, I performed an operation on an ear, a nose and a throat. At the same time. On three different people. Almost got my license revoked, actually. That was a pretty dark day for me, but I don’t regret it because I wanted to see what it felt like to hold the fates of three of the five human senses in my hands at the same time, and I got my answer. It felt like bubbling a gram of horse off the tip of a brand new otoscope.

You know, we had a little joke in otolaryngology school. “How many brain surgeons does it take to screw in a light bulb? Just one because they’re used to focusing on one thing.” There’s always been a pretty heated rivalry between us and those one-organ ponies. In fact, we have another joke about brain surgeons that I won’t tell because it’s filthy. It’s about their dicks.

I could get super technical about what I do, but let me break this down into layman’s terms for you. Do you like hearing shit like tea kettles and fire alarms and audio books? I know you fucking love audio books, especially on long road trips to New Hampshire. God, you fucking love New Hampshire. Live free or die! I get it. That’s a great goddamned slogan, it’s empowering and timeless, and I’m the person standing between you having a really festive road trip to New Hampshire or a really unfestive, deaf road trip.

How about smelling shit, do you like doing that? Of course you do, you fucking love getting your olfactory on. So what if you woke up one day and couldn’t smell your own baby? Or if on the same day as the failed baby-smelling attempt, your boss handed you a scratch and sniff sticker of pineapples and you were all like, “Mmm, peaches.” And he was like, no, they’re pineapples, can’t you smell them? Then you break down sobbing, saying, “No, I can’t smell it, I can’t fucking smell it… my nose doesn’t work, bro! My nose doesn’t work!” And he was like, “I don’t know if there’s a place for you here anymore.” That sounds like a pretty terrible day, doesn’t it?

Do you like breathing shit? Specifically, oxygen shit? If so, you’re going to need a throat, the organ that completes my holy trinity of medical domination. I see you looking at the gold tongue depressor plaque on my desk. Go on, drink it in. Since the quote etched on there says it, I guess I don’t need to tell you that you’re in the “Ahhh Zone,” so just open up and do it. Say hello to the gateway to the esophagus, the respiratory system’s Panama fucking Canal.

Hey, on your way out I’ve got a bowl full of Pfizer key chains in the shape of noses. You want one? I know you fucking want a nose keychain, so reach in there and take one. Just a little reminder every time you start your car of who your Ear, Nose & Throat doctor is. And secondarily, a reminder to consider Tikosyn for maintaining a healthy kick-ass sinus rhythm.