Even though it might not seem like it, we love our medical professionals. Truly. They continue to save our lives. But . . .
Maybe I need to reflect on the very real possibility that I'm just a bit salty about this whole thing because, when I was playing sports in school, our wound care consisted of an old toolbox full of glorified duct tape, an ice machine that might have a few cubes but only if the Pepsi wasn't selling well that night, and no shortage of dads who would loiter around the bench laughing at your grotesquely swollen ankle telling you to "walk it off".
Here's the thing: I'd have a better chance of procuring a tank of gas for less than the price of a flat screen TV than I would of locating a fax machine.
"The broad smile returned to her face, and she giggled, a grating, mechanical sound, like a hinge starting to lose its lubrication. “You’re a funny man, Mr. Carlton! Very funny man.”