Maybe there was nothing wrong with Mrs. Bocce’s brain afterall, the surgeon thought grimly as he duct-taped the top half of her skull back on and pushed her off the world’s steepest waterslide. Mrs. Bocce was his neighbor’s housekeeper, and she’d appeared on his balcony that morning wanting to borrow a shoehorn and a pair of rubber gloves. Everyone in the neighborhood was keenly aware of the surgeon’s massive collection of shoehorns and rubber gloves, and they were never shy about popping up to his balcony at all times of day or night.
Heroically smashing through his French-doors and finding Mrs. Bocce standing there on his balcony in the pale morning light, the surgeon ripped off his kimono and threw it on the roof and demanded she spend the day with him at Raging Waters, where he would happily perform the elective surgery of her choice while enjoying the many fantastic amenities. Mrs. Bocce agreed, and said that she’d always wanted a partial lobotomy, and could they stop for frozen yogurt on the way. She always liked to eat frozen yogurt before undergoing serious medical procedures at America’s finest waterpark.
The surgeon watched as Mrs. Bocce’s rotund body plummeted down the 500 yard dash of the waterslide, disappearing in a plume of whiteness at the bottom, her screams drowning in the taut, guitar driven melody of John Cougar Mellencamp’s Hurt So Good,which the surgeon had blasting 24/7 from a high-end Bose sound system he’d installed in his pancreas. The music was so loud and so physically destructive to his internal organs that the surgeon didn’t notice the raccoons gathering en masse in the parking lot, surrounding his SUV, armed with derringers and sharpened toothbrushes. The raccoons were grilling salmon, hoping to lure the surgeon out to the parking lot with the pleasant aroma of hickory, citrus and thyme.
It wasn’t the first time the American Medical Association had demonstrated such gross underappreciation of the surgeon and his unique talents, and they only stoked his ambition to eclipse all other experimental surgeons in the greater San Dimas area, none of whom were nearly as spontaneous as he.
Sometimes a lonely child would appear at the door, wondering where his mother was and if he could have a glass of water. The surgeon knew how to deal with wayward children such as this, it was the whole reason he’d built the oversized slingshot in his backyard. Slingshotting children was the surgeon’s favorite thing, other than surgery itself. Someday he would successfully combine the two, and on that day he would strip off his clothes while shouting the theme song to Baywatch Nights at the top of his lungs, anoint himself with oil, and after a couple quick phone calls to alert both the local media and his Rotary Club, he would launch himself into space while performing open-heart surgery on a variety of orphans, all of whom would be sired by the lead-guitarist from Arizona’s least well-known U2 cover band. Thanks, Dad, the surgeon would say, pointing a finger to the sun as his flesh evaporated in the atmosphere. Thanks for everything.