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Dec. 1st, 2005
Snuggle Bugs
Dec. 1st, 2005 11:25 pmVia Penny Arcade:
The doctor loosens his white coat. Is he too hot? He seems uncomfortable.
As seen on television, a row of X-Rays are held up to an illuminated wall with a series of clips. He removes what I think might be a Bic Ultratip from his pocket and begins to tap different parts of each, in a poignant way, hand shaking slightly so that each tap actually ends up being two or three distinct sounds. Tap tip tap.
Tap tip.
"You can see here, where the dendrites are joined," he says, in his bullshit doctor language.
I don't really see anything, I tell him.
"Your son, " he says, hesitant, "is a Snugglebug."
I sit down in a chair, which I assume is his own chair, and he sits in the chair that I probably should have sat in if I gave a fuck about the medical hierarchy.
I ask him what it means.
"It means that he is the cutest, the wutest little Snugglebug in the whole wide world," he recites, robotic, a white-clad bipedal dictionary.
Are there treatments? I mean, is there some kind of, I dont know, cream?
"No," he says, piercing my heart. "You will need to cuddle him daily."
He is quiet for a moment.
"Indeed, you may even need to huggle him."
The doctor loosens his white coat. Is he too hot? He seems uncomfortable.
As seen on television, a row of X-Rays are held up to an illuminated wall with a series of clips. He removes what I think might be a Bic Ultratip from his pocket and begins to tap different parts of each, in a poignant way, hand shaking slightly so that each tap actually ends up being two or three distinct sounds. Tap tip tap.
Tap tip.
"You can see here, where the dendrites are joined," he says, in his bullshit doctor language.
I don't really see anything, I tell him.
"Your son, " he says, hesitant, "is a Snugglebug."
I sit down in a chair, which I assume is his own chair, and he sits in the chair that I probably should have sat in if I gave a fuck about the medical hierarchy.
I ask him what it means.
"It means that he is the cutest, the wutest little Snugglebug in the whole wide world," he recites, robotic, a white-clad bipedal dictionary.
Are there treatments? I mean, is there some kind of, I dont know, cream?
"No," he says, piercing my heart. "You will need to cuddle him daily."
He is quiet for a moment.
"Indeed, you may even need to huggle him."