IT’S ALL MY FAULT
Polly Wants a Cracker… and a Gummy
By Duane Scott Cerny
Is the medical establishment not listening to your needs? Have you seen a clinician, doctor’s assistant, nurse. or physical therapist who simply ignores your words of: “Whoa, this hurts?
But what if there were another way for your medical concerns to be addressed? What if you could tell your story one last time, while still in search for a treatment or a cure, and then never had to speak of it again?
That’s when it occurred to me: What if I found a most brilliant parrot? Think television’s Mr. Ed, except as a chatty, well-informed parrot. She could learn of my condition and when prompted relate it to whomever. Doctors, nurses, PTs, baristas, unlucky people I sit next to on the subway. I’d simply place my parrot atop my shoulder like a pirate who’s lost his shit — sorry, ship. With barely a shoulder shrug she would parrot (sorry) my maladies and I would never have to speak of them again.
In my mind, my solution would go something like this:
NURSE: So, what brings you here today?
POLLY (squawking): We took a Lyft. Took a Lyft.
NURSE: I meant medically.
POLLY: Gluteal amnesia in his butt. In his butt
NURSE (dismissively): Oh, men rarely have that problem. Child birthing women occasionally complain of this condition.
POLLY (squawking): He’s not my daddy. Not my daddy. Wasn’t hatched with him sitting on Polly.
NURSE: I’m confused.
POLLY: Polly answers medical questions. Polly’s job. Polly wants a valium.
NURSE: We don’t dispense medications to patients. Or birds.
POLLY (squawking): Polly wants a valium!
NURSE: You trained her to say that.
ME (reluctantly): She picked it up on a parrot playdate. That and chlamydia.
POLLY (squawking louder): Polly wants some tail!
NURSE (frustrated): Okay, I think I’m done here. The doctor will be with you two shortly.
ME (to Polly): Can you stick to the script? This isn’t improv night at the Comedy Cellar.
POLLY: Overserved. Got kicked out. Got kicked out. Polly still killed!
DOCTOR (entering): Well, well, it sounds like your little bird friend here has Tourettes.
POLLY: Polly has Tourettes! Rockettes! Cockettes!
DOCTOR: This is a most unusual case, especially with your bird translator.
POLLY: Polly wants an opioid.
DOCTOR: Um, sorry, Polly but that’s not happening today. We have an entire wing here devoted to opioid cases.
POLLY: Polly wants a wing. And a valium. And an opioid.
DOCTOR: Now, Mr. Cerny. What brings you in today?
POLLY (sighing): Gluteal amnesia in his butt. In his butt. Dead butt syndrome. Dead. Butt.
DOCTOR: Oh, men rarely have gluteal amnesia.
POLLY (squawking): Here we go again. Go again. Polly losing patience.
DOCTOR (amused): I can assure you, Polly, I rarely lose a patient.
POLLY (squawking hysterically): He’s not funny. He’s not funny. Comedy Cellar hook. Comedy Cellar hook.
DOCTOR: Now ninety-eight percent of gluteal amnesia cases involve women. It’s very rare in men.
POLLY (correcting): Two percent in men. Two percent. Like the milk. Like the milk. Lactose intolerant.
DOCTOR: You have a very intelligent bird here, Mr. Cerny.
POLLY: Gluteal amnesia. Gluteal amnesia. Stick to the script, Doogie House call.
DOCTOR (annoyed): Again, very rare in men. However, with treatments and physical therapy, I think we can help you.
POLLY: Injections. Dozens. Done. Sedations. Done. Two years of PT. PT. PT. (squawking) It’s a pity!
DOCTOR: Interesting. So, you’ve seen a neurologist?
POLLY: He’s seen three. No four. No five. Polly wants crack. Polly wants crack!
DOCTOR: Mr. Cerny, might it be better if you spoke for yourself without the bird?
POLLY (annoyed): Polly has a name. It’s Polly’s job. Polly knows what’s what. Polly wants morphine!
DOCTOR: Now I see from your chart, Mr. Cerny, you cannot have morphine. Allergic reaction.
POLLY: He almost died. Almost died. Polly wants propofol!
DOCTOR (shaking his head): You know propofol killed Michael Jackson?
POLLY (shaking her tail): Just beat it. Just beat it.
DOCTOR: Let me bring in my associate, Dr. Gopalakrishnan Kaashi Vishwanathan. We call him Dr. Gopals, for short.
POLLY: No Goebbels. No Goebbels. Polly’s Jewish. Doctor’s meshuga. Polly needs a rabbi.
NURSE (popping her head in): Did I hear someone say they want a cracker?
POLLY (to me): She’s kidding, right?
POLLY (to nurse): Polly wants a dead butt treatment. (ruffling feathers) And Polly tired of squawking in the third person!
- GOPALS (entering): So, what brings you here today?
POLLY: Oye! A Lyft. You’re late for the joke, doc. Late for the joke. Dead butt syndrome. Yes, women. Childbirth. Ninety-eight-frickin’ percent. Men. Two percent. Try to keep up. Keep up.
- GOPALS: May I speak to you directly, Mr. Cerny?
POLLY: Hence the bird. The bird. Polly wants a second opinion. A third. A turd.
ME: Polly has told you everything. Like she says: “Hence the bird.”
- GOPALS: This is a most usual case. And having a spokesman— I mean, spokesbird. Now, what are your other symptoms?
Polly abruptly leaps from my shoulder, flying a complete circular pass around the small office, craps exuberantly on Dr. Gopal’s white lab coat, then returns to my outstretched arm.
POLLY: Sorry. Dead butt symptom sample sale. Polly earns a gummy!
Update: No parrots or dead butts were harmed during the writing of this essay. All comments appreciated. Especially from birds.
Duane Scott Cerny takes the blame for most everything in his monthly satirical column, It’s All My Fault. Best-selling author of Selling Dead People’s Things and Vintage Confidential, he is the co-owner of Chicago’s Broadway Antique Market and is a guest favorite among fearless podcasters. Contact him at E-ThanklessGreetings@yahoo.com.
