Anonymous asked:

Having a doctor you hate ask for a prescription drug as OTC as " a favor " ..

countby5s answered:

The only “favor” I’m willing do allow for a doctor:

Actually, I wouldn’t mind seeing a nationally televised fight to the death between physicians. We could reap from different specialties. The dermatologists would be the first to go. I think the orthopedic surgeons might make it pretty far. But I think the gynos would take it. Obviously, nothing disgusts them.

Anyone have any ideas for when I present this brilliance this to the AMA?



A silent protest in Love Park, downtown Philadelphia orchestrated by performance artists protesting the murder of Michael Brown in Ferguson. The onslaught of passerby’s  wanting to take photos with the statue exemplifies the disconnect in American society.  Simply frame out the dead body, and it doesn’t exist.  

Here are some observations by one of the artists involved in the event:

I don’t know who any of these folks are.

They were tourists I presume.

But I heard most of what everything they said. A few lines in particular stood out. There’s one guy not featured in the photos. His friends were trying to get him to join the picture but he couldn’t take his eyes off the body.

"Something about this doesn’t feel right. I’m going to sit this one out, guys." "Com’on man… he’s already dead."


There were a billion little quips I heard today. Some broke my heart. Some restored my faith in humanity. There was an older white couple who wanted to take a picture under the statue.

The older gentleman: “Why do they have to always have to shove their politics down our throats.” Older woman: “They’re black kids, honey. They don’t have anything better to do.”

One woman even stepped over the body to get her picture. But as luck would have it the wind blew the caution tape and it got tangle around her foot. She had to stop and take the tape off. She still took her photo.

There was a guy who yelled at us… “We need more dead like them. Yay for the white man!”

"One young guy just cried and then gave me a hug and said ‘thank you. It’s nice to know SOMEBODY sees me.’


I don’t know how to tell her about my country,
about rape camps -
about mothers and daughters
in the same room, same men
breaking into them again and again
and again
with hammers
and wrenches
and fingers of thick trees, molding their bones.
It’s a shame to have to wear
seven generations of shattered blood
I want to tell her -
two years in this country
means nothing in the sea of unforget
I am two years
of unwords,
I am a lost narrative thread.