Fun with editing II

Ooohnoooo, it looks like Rev.Dave at Terrible Depths and Birchbark Bible has discovered another masterpiece of social conservative prose, a look at a future dystopian Ontario under the jackboot of sexual jihadists. It starts:

Monday morning rolls around and you’re pulling up to your local family doctor’s office with your 5 year-old child. You’ve booked your appointment a few days ago, and you’re there to get some medical treatment for your son who has been experiencing a persistent cough and a certain dizziness. (Unlike many others, you’re fortunate enough to have a family doctor. Ontario isn’t exactly experiencing a boon in the number of family doctors.) You walk in the door and you approach the receptionist’s counter.

“Hi, I’m here for my son’s 9AM appointment with Dr. Smith.”

“I’m sorry”, the receptionist says quite sheepishly, “Dr. Smith is no longer practicing.”

The receptionist notices your look of shock. It’s an expression she is now well accustomed to and she has the next line ready to deliver:

“Dr. Smith is no longer permitted to practice medicine in the province of Ontario because he refuses to refer patients to abortionists or give counsel about artificial insemination between same-sex couples or sex change operations.”

Well, you know how deeply I’m affected by social conservative prose, and how helpful I am with editing… No!  No, I won’t put this one through the editing machine… Whoops! Too late, the machine is already fired up and, fueled by a solution of 3 parts Bukowski and 1 part William S. Burroughs, it’s ready to go… alright, let’s BUK it a little:

Monday morning rolls around like a blowsy old whore on a leaky, cum-stained waterbed in a skid row hotel, and as usual, you’re out of drugs. Soon you’re pulling up to your local family doctor’s office in a spray of gravel and oily exhaust fumes with a bottle of cheap 5 year-old single-malt scotch that you drain and toss into the garbage-strewn street as you stumble out of the car. You kick the office door almost right off its rusted hinges and stagger in without an appointment – as always, the waiting room is teeming with the twitching junkies who make up old Doc “Scriptwriter” Smith’s patient list, and like the rest of them, you’re there to get some medical treatment for your “chronic pain condition”. (Unlike many others, you’re fortunate enough to have a doctor with a good strong writing arm and a brain like a bowl of Chunky Soup. Ontario isn’t exactly experiencing a boon in the number of doctors who’ll write morphine scripts for tennis elbow.) You push through the room, past the grasping hands that claw at your threadbare Value Village overcoat and ignore the muted voices pleading “Are ya holdin’?” as you approach the receptionist’s counter.

““Hi, I’m here for my pain medication, and I want it now. Where the fuck’s the Doc?”

“I’m sorry”, the receptionist says quite sheepishly, “Dr.Smith is no longer practicing.”

The receptionist notices your look of shock. It’s an expression she is now well accustomed to, having dealt with spastic jonesing junkies for years.  “No!  It can’t be!” you scream, pounding your fists on the counter and tearing at your hair.  “Was he busted?”   The receptionist shakes her head.

“Dr. Smith is no longer permitted to practice medicine in the Theocratic Republic of Ontario. Under Ontario’s New Theocracy, medicine must conform to Religious Standards: no contraceptives, no condoms, no secular science, NO DRUGS. Dr. Smith was run out of town by a pitchfork and flaming torch-wielding mob because he refuses to refer patients to exorcists, snake handlers and leech therapists or give counsel about praying The Gay away.”

There. Fixed.

The rest of the story is so entertaining in its original batshit form that there’s nothing I could possibly do to improve on it.  But don’t let that stop anyone else from taking a run at it…