Through previous chapters you may have gotten the feeling that I am somewhat obsessive. I don’t think I am but my registration papers for a certifiable institution say that I suffer from this harmless disease.
I can’t help it that I love music. I can’t help that the deliverers of this music bring me so much joy that I need to attend their every performance available to the public. One particular band who are from Melbourne, but shall remain nameless while the lawsuit is pending, are the backdrop for this story. They have played various venues in our fair city and I have again, through my constant attendance, paid the wages for these boys through the cold winter months. Many of the venues are normal concert type facilities, which I thoroughly enjoy. I can thereby display my enviable dance skills whilst scanning the room trying to make eye contact with the gorgeous men surrounding me. I invariably meet the eyes of a stranger and then vanish to a dark corner with him and you know the rest…..my friends get in a panic wondering if I’ve ended up dead in a dark alley somewhere. But I digress.
One of the gigs we attended was not your typical concert style venue but rather a funky jazz bar in a laneway in the city. It was meant to be an intimate evening with the boys. Intimate it was, but not with the musicians who make my heart sore. Instead I became very close, too close, with a man and his wife who sat at my table, which being the size of a coke bottle lid, made for a very intimate introduction. So in the small confines of this space I, in my usual friendly way, started chatting to the couple. Oh what a mistake that was. Oh how I regretted it as soon as the man opened his mouth. He was perhaps in his 50’s wearing a wide brimmed black hat. (I’m not sure in what era that was considered acceptable.)
I felt like I had dived head first into a compost bin which had been festering for 200 years. The smell emanating from that mans mouth was enough to power Bangladesh for 10 years. But I had no where to go, no exit strategy. I was stranded on a tiny island with my head in a sewer. I tried to engage the wife in the conversation but she seemed to be the trophy wife, the handbag he took out with him. She was to be seen and not heard. And then, when I though it can’t possibly get any worse, he became so animated in the conversation that when he enunciated his words, large globules of saliva spear headed their way onto my already tense and thoroughly clean body. I couldn’t believe that not only was my sense of smell to be bombarded with the stench of hell but also my sensitive and supple skin was to be rained upon by missiles of germs and bacteria.
How could an evening with one of the greatest bands to have come out of Melbourne be ruined by a man who would have been evicted from a tip. Why, oh why, do these things happen to me????
Saturday, November 22, 2008
“We live and learn from our mistakes” – Pat Benetar
As the title suggests, one can’t go through life without making mistakes and thankfully we learn from these blunders in life – most of the time. Well some of us do anyway. Just because I have MD in my title, doesn’t mean I am the fountain of all knowledge. Perhaps MD is short for Mad Dog or could it be Muff Daddy? No, erase that thought from your brain, where is that delete button???? That title is reserved for one man and one man only. But you already know about him, so let’s proceed to the current story.
From past chapters you have learnt that I love life, I make the most of the experiences that come my way. I don’t want any opportunity to pass me by. Why should they go past unchallenged? Life is meant to be lived!!! That’s my motto and I’m sticking to it. The world is meant to be explored, people are meant to be spoken to, challenges are meant to be overcome. This brings me to my adventure in Switzerland. What a beautiful country. Whether it’s by rail, by foot, by cable car or by raft, Switzerland can be enjoyed in more ways than one.
So when the kamikaze tour guides at the Pink Palace suggested a white water rafting trip, who was I to say no. White water rafting must be safe, it’s been done by millions before me and will continue to be enjoyed by millions after me. Why does the Kevin Bacon film come to mind? Anyway, I signed up with others who had the same lust for life and the next morning we headed out. I can’t begin to explain the excitement I was feeling. Everyone was in a bright and sunny mood – or is that just memory talking? I’m sure we would have been severely hung over. Everything served at the Pink Palace is alcoholic, a mecca for all liver doctors. (I wouldn’t want to show off with the technical term for my colleagues.)
We arrive at the edge of the river and Kamikaze Tour Guide gets out the equipment. Hmm, I saw some rubber in the shape of a wet suit. Hmm, what’s that for? The only rubber I should be seeing is surely the raft (and maybe a rubber of a different kind later on). I tentatively asked those around me what the wet suits were for. Maybe they didn’t understand me because they only seemed to stare at me. Kamikaze then started handing them out. The mortified look on my face only encouraged the psycho, he even started frothing at the mouth. I’m glad someone was enjoying themselves. Well, I sucked it in, literally, and put the material on that was never meant to be put on a human being.
I calmed myself down and waited for the instructions, which were flimsy at best. There were two basic rules, Hold on for dear life and if you fall out, swim back to the raft asap. Hmm, another word I was not familiar with. Swim. What exactly is that? No-one told me that was a pre-requisite for this adventure. Why can’t people be more specific when luring innocent bystanders into their lairs? It’s not as if it’s an obvious pre-requisite.
How was I supposed to get out of this now? Well, I didn’t really need to. Surely I wouldn’t fall out. I just needed to hang on. I’ve done that before. Aah, what was I worried about. A stroll in the park, that’s all. So we climbed in and I somehow ended up at the front to face the rapids head on. I just laughed in the face of fear. We headed out and it didn’t seem so bad. I even let go with one hand and the blood started flowing back into my fingers. I was chatting away almost tempted to ask for a glass of wine, as it was like being on a cruise, when we hit the first rapids. My other hand quickly groped for the handle and held on for dear life. Thankfully I was at the front so nobody could see my face. My bones rattled and my body jerked this way and that. I wonder if I kept that whip-lash collar. It was a struggle to hold on but I knew what the consequences would be if I let go, so I gritted my teeth and hoped for the best.
It finally calmed down again and I felt then it may be prudent to tell Kamikaze about my lack of swimming skills. Big mistake! He laughed like a man possessed and steered head on into more wild and foaming water. Then the unthinkable happened. Kamikaze turned to me and with glee on his face, pushed me into the water. It was a few seconds of being underwater before I realised exactly what situation I was in. The man was trying to kill me. This wasn’t a confidence building tactic, this was plainly and simply a murder attempt.
My life vest eventually brought me to the surface and I sucked in that beautiful cold air, as if my lungs hadn’t been filled for hours. But my relief was short lived. Another wave rolled over me and I was again plunged into the murky waters. This happened again and again until Kamikaze realised I wasn’t kidding when I said I couldn’t swim. He finally controlled his mad laughter and steered over to me extending the paddle as a means of bringing me to safety. But I wasn’t sure what was safer, being in the water with a life jacket or being in a raft with an escapee from the psych ward.
With the help of others I was finally hauled back into the raft. It wasn’t the most graceful way of boarding the raft, what with legs splayed everywhere and me flip flopping to and fro to get back in, but modesty was not my highest priority at that time. I needed to get back to the hostel and get more of the amber liquid into me. That was the only way I could get past that horrific event. Kamikaze had other ideas. He continued along the river almost landing us in France, without so much as wondering if I was conscious or able to continue on this life threatening journey. The others held on to me with their legs, just in case I didn’t have the strength to hold on myself or if Kamikaze had another mad fit.
We finally made it back to land and I knew then and there I was either going to learn to swim or I was never going to set foot in water again. But for now all I was looking forward to, was the alcoholic slumber I wanted to induce. Whether I got myself into a similar situation again or not, I will leave for another chapter. But remember folks, learn from your mistakes, don’t blunder into them again and again.
From past chapters you have learnt that I love life, I make the most of the experiences that come my way. I don’t want any opportunity to pass me by. Why should they go past unchallenged? Life is meant to be lived!!! That’s my motto and I’m sticking to it. The world is meant to be explored, people are meant to be spoken to, challenges are meant to be overcome. This brings me to my adventure in Switzerland. What a beautiful country. Whether it’s by rail, by foot, by cable car or by raft, Switzerland can be enjoyed in more ways than one.
So when the kamikaze tour guides at the Pink Palace suggested a white water rafting trip, who was I to say no. White water rafting must be safe, it’s been done by millions before me and will continue to be enjoyed by millions after me. Why does the Kevin Bacon film come to mind? Anyway, I signed up with others who had the same lust for life and the next morning we headed out. I can’t begin to explain the excitement I was feeling. Everyone was in a bright and sunny mood – or is that just memory talking? I’m sure we would have been severely hung over. Everything served at the Pink Palace is alcoholic, a mecca for all liver doctors. (I wouldn’t want to show off with the technical term for my colleagues.)
We arrive at the edge of the river and Kamikaze Tour Guide gets out the equipment. Hmm, I saw some rubber in the shape of a wet suit. Hmm, what’s that for? The only rubber I should be seeing is surely the raft (and maybe a rubber of a different kind later on). I tentatively asked those around me what the wet suits were for. Maybe they didn’t understand me because they only seemed to stare at me. Kamikaze then started handing them out. The mortified look on my face only encouraged the psycho, he even started frothing at the mouth. I’m glad someone was enjoying themselves. Well, I sucked it in, literally, and put the material on that was never meant to be put on a human being.
I calmed myself down and waited for the instructions, which were flimsy at best. There were two basic rules, Hold on for dear life and if you fall out, swim back to the raft asap. Hmm, another word I was not familiar with. Swim. What exactly is that? No-one told me that was a pre-requisite for this adventure. Why can’t people be more specific when luring innocent bystanders into their lairs? It’s not as if it’s an obvious pre-requisite.
How was I supposed to get out of this now? Well, I didn’t really need to. Surely I wouldn’t fall out. I just needed to hang on. I’ve done that before. Aah, what was I worried about. A stroll in the park, that’s all. So we climbed in and I somehow ended up at the front to face the rapids head on. I just laughed in the face of fear. We headed out and it didn’t seem so bad. I even let go with one hand and the blood started flowing back into my fingers. I was chatting away almost tempted to ask for a glass of wine, as it was like being on a cruise, when we hit the first rapids. My other hand quickly groped for the handle and held on for dear life. Thankfully I was at the front so nobody could see my face. My bones rattled and my body jerked this way and that. I wonder if I kept that whip-lash collar. It was a struggle to hold on but I knew what the consequences would be if I let go, so I gritted my teeth and hoped for the best.
It finally calmed down again and I felt then it may be prudent to tell Kamikaze about my lack of swimming skills. Big mistake! He laughed like a man possessed and steered head on into more wild and foaming water. Then the unthinkable happened. Kamikaze turned to me and with glee on his face, pushed me into the water. It was a few seconds of being underwater before I realised exactly what situation I was in. The man was trying to kill me. This wasn’t a confidence building tactic, this was plainly and simply a murder attempt.
My life vest eventually brought me to the surface and I sucked in that beautiful cold air, as if my lungs hadn’t been filled for hours. But my relief was short lived. Another wave rolled over me and I was again plunged into the murky waters. This happened again and again until Kamikaze realised I wasn’t kidding when I said I couldn’t swim. He finally controlled his mad laughter and steered over to me extending the paddle as a means of bringing me to safety. But I wasn’t sure what was safer, being in the water with a life jacket or being in a raft with an escapee from the psych ward.
With the help of others I was finally hauled back into the raft. It wasn’t the most graceful way of boarding the raft, what with legs splayed everywhere and me flip flopping to and fro to get back in, but modesty was not my highest priority at that time. I needed to get back to the hostel and get more of the amber liquid into me. That was the only way I could get past that horrific event. Kamikaze had other ideas. He continued along the river almost landing us in France, without so much as wondering if I was conscious or able to continue on this life threatening journey. The others held on to me with their legs, just in case I didn’t have the strength to hold on myself or if Kamikaze had another mad fit.
We finally made it back to land and I knew then and there I was either going to learn to swim or I was never going to set foot in water again. But for now all I was looking forward to, was the alcoholic slumber I wanted to induce. Whether I got myself into a similar situation again or not, I will leave for another chapter. But remember folks, learn from your mistakes, don’t blunder into them again and again.
Dr. Isis Shaker MD
Often people consider themselves experts in particular fields, whether it’s because they studied those subjects or due to life experience. I am of course no exception and find myself quite adept at discussing various issues in life, including those that are health related.
I often give advice to friends and anyone else interested in hearing about my expertise in this very important part of our lives. Friends now come to me seeking professional advice and of course my high standards and enviable work ethic prohibit me from refusing such an important request. I cast aside anything I may be doing at the time and politely, and seemingly interested, listen to their tales of woe.
Many ailments are due to one thing and I can usually give them a prescription, which will alleviate them of any discomfort and restore them to full health. I am a firm believer that the digestive process is an integral part of keeping our health comparable to that of an elite athlete, such as myself.
Heartburn, stomach noises, bloating are all symptoms of a greater evil. I myself have chronically suffered from bloating and can often be seen holding my stomach with a pained expression on my face. I sought to figure out how to rid the world of this debilitating disease. It took me a while to realise that a healthy diet would go a long way in curing the illness that many generations have been forced to suffer through. And I have come up with a cure that I have passed on to anyone that will listen, to anyone that looks up to my supreme intelligence and knowledge. That is my duty as a humanitarian, as an expert and as a human being. And now this book is another medium for me to pass on my good works. So stand by for something that will change your life.
It is simply that, which we in the profession call “Better out than in”. These 4 magical words have saved me and countless others in preventing the awful and often devastating symptoms of a bad diet. I have gleefully spread the word and on countless occasions given demonstrations of how flatulence can bring sheer joy to the perpetrator and those around them. The look of satisfaction and relief on those faces is thanks enough. And if you don’t believe me, here is some feedback from one of my happy customers.
“When Dr. Shaker rolled on top of me and let one rip, I can’t describe to you the immense joy and ecstasy she felt. The pure pleasure on her face was enough to dispel the cloud, which had surrounded me. I put aside the excruciating pain my nasal passage was forced to endure, just to celebrate with her, this new invigorating feeling she was experiencing. I can recommend it to anyone.” – I. Lovitt, Des Moines, USA. That says it all. So go forth and fart. It’ll do you good ;-)
I often give advice to friends and anyone else interested in hearing about my expertise in this very important part of our lives. Friends now come to me seeking professional advice and of course my high standards and enviable work ethic prohibit me from refusing such an important request. I cast aside anything I may be doing at the time and politely, and seemingly interested, listen to their tales of woe.
Many ailments are due to one thing and I can usually give them a prescription, which will alleviate them of any discomfort and restore them to full health. I am a firm believer that the digestive process is an integral part of keeping our health comparable to that of an elite athlete, such as myself.
Heartburn, stomach noises, bloating are all symptoms of a greater evil. I myself have chronically suffered from bloating and can often be seen holding my stomach with a pained expression on my face. I sought to figure out how to rid the world of this debilitating disease. It took me a while to realise that a healthy diet would go a long way in curing the illness that many generations have been forced to suffer through. And I have come up with a cure that I have passed on to anyone that will listen, to anyone that looks up to my supreme intelligence and knowledge. That is my duty as a humanitarian, as an expert and as a human being. And now this book is another medium for me to pass on my good works. So stand by for something that will change your life.
It is simply that, which we in the profession call “Better out than in”. These 4 magical words have saved me and countless others in preventing the awful and often devastating symptoms of a bad diet. I have gleefully spread the word and on countless occasions given demonstrations of how flatulence can bring sheer joy to the perpetrator and those around them. The look of satisfaction and relief on those faces is thanks enough. And if you don’t believe me, here is some feedback from one of my happy customers.
“When Dr. Shaker rolled on top of me and let one rip, I can’t describe to you the immense joy and ecstasy she felt. The pure pleasure on her face was enough to dispel the cloud, which had surrounded me. I put aside the excruciating pain my nasal passage was forced to endure, just to celebrate with her, this new invigorating feeling she was experiencing. I can recommend it to anyone.” – I. Lovitt, Des Moines, USA. That says it all. So go forth and fart. It’ll do you good ;-)
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