A game of Drug Charades involving a novice physician and a veteran drug seeker might go something like this:
“Good evening, sir! I’m Floogie Howser, Doogie’s younger brother. How can I help you?”
“Well, this morning I accidentally dropped my pills into my neighbour’s aquarium and his guppies ate them all.”
“My goodness! Are they okay?”
“What?”
“The fish! Are they okay?”
“Oh, yeah, they’re fine; just a little sleepy. Listen, is there any way you could refill the prescription for me? I’m not supposed to go without my pills, and my regular doc’s on vacation in Antarctica.”
“No problem, sir! What kind of pills were they?”
“Painkillers.”
“Do you remember the name?”
“Not really, doc – I don’t pay much attention to that sort of thing. I think it started with a P, if that’s any help.”
“P?”
“Yes.”
“Gee, I can’t recall the names of any painkillers that start with the letter P.”
“P-e-r, I think it was.”
“P-e-r?”
“Yes.”
“Per, per… I’m awfully sorry, but I’m drawing a complete blank.”
“Per-co-something. They were round and white.”
“Per-co, round and white, Per-co… Hey! Could it have been Percocet?”
“That’s it! Wow, doc, you’re incredible!”
“Thanks!”
“So… can I get some?”
“Certainly! Will 200 be enough?”
Once in a while I like to have a little fun with Charaders:
“Hi Mr. Pinkman, my name is Dr. Gray. How can I help you today?”
“Well, doc, last night someone broke into my lab, ah, I mean apartment, and stole all my pills. Do you think I could get a prescription for some more?”
“Well… .”
“Just enough to tide me over until my regular doc gets back.”
“What type of pills were they?”
“Painkillers.”
“Hmm. Do you remember the name of the medication?”
“I’m not sure, but they were round and white.”
“Aspirin?”
“I think the name started with an O.”
“O?”
“Yes.”
“Orudis?”
“No, that’s not it.”
“Hmm… .”
“It might have been Oxy-Something.”
“Oxygen?”
“No.”
“Oxymoron?”
“No! Come to think of it, the last three letters were t-i-n.”
“Oxytin?”
“Nine letters… .”
“OxyBontin?”
“There’s a C in it… .”
“OxyContin?”
“Yes!”
“Never heard of it.”
Haute Cuisine
A few weekends ago Jan and I were scheduled to return to Hogtown to try our luck at another show and fancy restaurant, but our flight got snowed out. Undaunted, we decided to give one of our little town’s newer eateries a try. After securing a babysitter we donned our finest and headed out.
The moment we entered we knew it wasn’t going to be a five-star culinary experience. For starters, the oversized television set above the bar was broadcasting a WWF wrestling match at teeth-rattling volume. Some steroidal goon in a lucha libre mask and a velvet cape was whacking a similarly attired Cro-Mag over the head with a metal folding chair. The other immediately obvious problem was that there were only five people in the entire restaurant – a group of four chatty snowmobilers plus a waitress who didn’t look much older than the babysitter we had just left behind at our house. So much for ambiance.
Our waitress led us past dozens of empty tables only to stop at one right beside the garrulous quartet. The stench of gasoline was overpowering.
“Is this table okay?” she asked.
“How about somewhere a little more, uh, private?” I replied, sotto voce.
She moved us to a more suitable spot, gave us our menus and departed.
Five minutes later she returned to take our drink orders. Jan requested something a friend had told her the restaurant stocked – Heisenberg on tap. The waitress apologetically informed her that it was no longer available because the owner had moved the draft tank to his other restaurant. Shucks. Jan settled for a Blue Light. I ordered a Sling. Yes, you read that right – a Sling. I love girly drinks, especially the ones with those colourful little umbrellas in them. What can I say?
Our waitress returned with Jan’s beer, but no Sling. Turning to me she asked: “Is a Sling the same thing as a Singapore Sling?”
“Yes, it is.”
She pulled one of those red bartender drink-mixing books out of her hip pocket, rifled through it and said, “According to this, Singapore Slings are usually made with two ounces of lemon juice.” I nodded sagely. “My book also mentions an alternative recipe that calls for two ounces of lime juice instead of lemon juice,” she continued. “Which would you prefer?”
“Lemon juice, please,” I replied.
She skittered off.
Before long she was back with two tall, yellow drinks on her tray. Neither looked even remotely like any Sling I had ever seen before.
“I made one with lemon juice and the other with lime juice,” she beamed. “Check and see which you like best.”
I took a sip from the first one. It was incredibly sour.
“I don’t think you added enough grenadine,” I theorized.
“Grenadine? Darn it! Are these things supposed to have grenadine in them?” She consulted her little red bible. “You’re right; they are supposed to have grenadine! Hang on, I’ll be right back!”
She zipped away.
Seconds later she returned with a bottle of grenadine.
“Okay,” said our teenybopper waitress. “I’ll pour, and you tell me when to quit.”
I glanced at Jan. She grinned and took a swig of her Blue Light.
“Go for it,” I said.
After a couple of glubs I held up my hand and she stopped pouring. We all stared at the one-inch layer of grenadine congealing at the bottom of the glass. My drink was beginning to look like a science experiment gone bad. Our waitress picked up my soup spoon and used it to stir the dubious concoction.
“How does it taste now?” she asked eagerly.
I took a sip. Yecch!
“Wonderful!” I said. “Thank you very much.”
She heaved a sigh of relief, gathered up her stuff and left.
“Our special this evening is liver and onions.”
Liver and onions? Yecch!
“Do you have any fish dishes?” I asked.
“We have some really awesome pickerel, sir.”
“Is it bony?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Okay, I’ll give it a try, then.”
Jan deliberated for a minute before selecting Weiner schnitzel and noodles with a side order of fresh vegetables. As we waited for our food, she drained the last of her Blue Light. I stirred my vile Sling morosely.
Our food arrived. Jan was disappointed to find her “fresh vegetables” were in fact canned peas. To add insult to injury, when she began eating she discovered the noodles tasted like those lumps that used to form in Cream of Wheat.
“I didn’t mind the lumps in Cream of Wheat, but they’re not supposed to masquerade as German noodles!” she complained. I snickered. Revenge is so sweet.
“Should have ordered the pickerel,” I said smugly. “Brain food, you know.”
I cut off a piece and bit into it.
“Ack!”
“What’s wrong?” asked Jan.
“Bones!” I gasped. A dense cluster of bones trying its damnedest to assassinate me, to be precise. I gingerly extracted the razor-like spicules one by one. Subsequent mouthfuls weren’t any better. After several attempts I gave up and turned my attention to the accompanying rice and broccoli. Both were insipid.
At the end of the meal, our food was virtually untouched. When our waitress returned she looked worried.
“Was everything okay?” she asked.
“Splendid. Do you have any decaf?”
“All we have is Sanka,” she said.
The only thing worse than no coffee is Sanka. I’d sooner drink bilge water.
“Um, maybe we’ll just take the check now,” I replied.
We left her a big tip. I’m guessing she used it to purchase the new Backstreet Boys album. Or perhaps a couple of tubes of Clearasil. Small town living. There’s no life like it!