Reverend Payne, I have a complaint.

[Doktor Howl]

"It don't mean nothing til you prove it all night."
- Richard Milhous Nixon

Just back from my "primary care physician"...And it seems that, beginning on Monday, I am to be poked, prodded, scanned, exsanguinated, and beaten by a range of specialists and lab geeks, in an effort to figure out precisely what is wrong with me.  The brain damage I sustained last winter doesn't explain the symptoms (most of which preceded my illness, though not in their current severity), nor does simple stress.

One of the starker possibilities is MS, which promises a lifetime of fun and interesting surprises.

Now, I'm used to the universe trying to kill me (or at least make me miserable), and I'm not letting it bother me.  However, I have a complaint as to the engineering that went into the human body.  Frankly, it's a terrible design, and it leads me to believe that God hired Fiat engineers to design the fucking thing.  There's about 8 million things that can go wrong with it, and there's no redundancy in any of the major functions.   I'm not talking about the dash cigarette lighter not working, I'm talking about the engine seizing up solid on the freeway at 85MPH.

So tell me, Payne, who do I file a complaint with?  Is there a God that can meet me out behind Old Man Johnson's barn to settle this?  If not, I'd like you to set an appointment for the empty meaningless void to meet me back there, and we'll settle this once and for all.

Your universe pisses me off, Payne.  Fix it before I do.

Nobody wants that.

Okay for now,
Dok

[Adios]

Let me know if you want some help tearing the fucking thing apart.

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

 

[Jenne]

I should have known something was up when you were so quiet. you and I are having some shitty-ass luck with our health lately!!! We are too young to have this many x-rays and ultrasounds and MRI's under our belts! Not to mention the BLOOD TESTS! I know I have a permanent scar on the inside of my elbow from the needle they use in the lab to draw blood. They use the same damned spot everytime, like it's some fucking venal tap.

Nigel said it better than I did:

[Doktor Howl]

I should have known something was up when you were so quiet. you and I are having some shitty-ass luck with our health lately!!! We are too young to have this many x-rays and ultrasounds and MRI's under our belts! Not to mention the BLOOD TESTS! I know I have a permanent scar on the inside of my elbow from the needle they use in the lab to draw blood. They use the same damned spot everytime, like it's some fucking venal tap.

Nigel said it better than I did:

I am a shit magnet. 

[Payne]

I'm sorry Dok, I've never managed to actually FIND God, though I've been looking for the bastard to pay me his fucking child support. Best I could do was track down a contact in Tucson, as it happens.

A certain old fellow who spends his day at El Con, trying to impress upon the natives his perfect vision of the world and of the universe. He is dressed only partially, and in brown. You will know him by the security guards and assorted other uniforms ostensibly herding him out the door (this is pretence, in fact. They are guarding him vigilantly). He knows the name you need to speak to to sort this shit out.

Oddly enough, ever since I've stopped thinking about him, I have gotten a job and all sorts of assorted Good Things have happened... Well except for me thinking too much about him yesterday when he decided to take Bosley away from me for good.

In any case, you should not assault this man. He is merely a pawn. Merely a symbol, in that traditional "Tucson Symbolism" kind of way.

I'd consult him myself, but a) I fear now to enter the event horizon of Tucson and b) I fear he would take Scott Bakula, Eddie Izzard or Robert Rankin from me next.

[Kai]