It was on a Saturday that I was rudely awoken at 7:30 am with a forceful demand to get dressed and proceed to the hospital for an unscheduled practice exam. The truth of course was that anything other than starting at 5 am for preparation was in fact lazy and means you have an attitude problem.
I found out from Cgiffard that next year, it turns out that they are going to replace the exam with a big boulder that you have to push uphill, whereupon an exam convener will kick it to the bottom again. In addition there are 5 concurrent boulders, you guess which boulder to push but regardless of which one, you will be squashed by all 5 then chained to a rock to have your liver ripped out while people point and laugh and say you did a bad job.
After that (god willing) you get to be a specialist and drive around in a dentist’s Porsche! So it’s all OK. And once inducted into the cult you believe with religious fervour that This Is the Way®™. Of course, it’s not actually your Porsche, and you are not a dentist – you are actually tied up in the boot with a missing liver, a feeling of being a little scathed in the abdomen and nothing but a frilly ice pack to nurse your wounds. A small price to pay for true luxury!
You mumble to yourself “this is not my beautiful wife, this is not my beautiful car“, watching the days go by, and alternating humming a song by a Fauxdashian.
It goes without saying that this is just something you are chanting to yourself ineffectually as you bleed out in the boot of the dentist with whom your wife is having an extramarital affair.
But at least FRACP will be engraved on your gravestone! In fact, that’s all that will be engraved on it. Just FRACP over and over again in Crazy Font®™. Your relatives will look upon your gravestone, clutching the tender hands of their young children as they say:
“Wasn’t he such a hero? Don’t you want to be just like him when you grow up?” And the cycle repeats. There’s not FRACPing end to it.
Somewhere out there, there’s a person with a possessèd liver. The liver COMPELS THEM to become an FRACP examiner.
Future examiner: “But I’ve wanted to be a motor mechanic my whole life… I… AUGH!!”
LIVER (voice of Danny DeVito): “Ah, cmaaahn! You just got to liver little!”
The worst thing other than being forced to judge people subjectively over impossible tasks is putting up with the Danny DeVito voice. And uncontrollable guilt that makes you only put fellow transplant patients into the exam.
In The Examiner‘s house lies a maple wood plaque with a burnished silver nameplate reading ‘FRACP’ in elegant conservative engraving, of which The Examiner is particularly proud.
Atop this plaque is mounted a frilly, bloodstained icepack.
“I am the one who SURVIVED! I MADE IT!”, The Examiner thinks when he looks upon it. “I’m right! My ways are absolute and incontrovertible!”
“Yah did good, kid.” The slow mafioso drawl from his liver is something The Examiner had come to enjoy. He adjusts his black tie and white shirt in his ill-fitting corpse cult suit, smirking in the mirror. A wisp of black smoke curls from the examiner’s ear — the last synaptic linkages of empathy now completely cauterised — held in place only by an increasingly thick glial sinew to the section of his hippocampus that stores memories of his Porsche. When the other organs fail, heck there are plenty more organs where that came from. The team that performs the surgery are all overseas trained doctors waiting endlessly for their specialist recognition to come through.
“Hurry up, GUAM.” The Examiner barked, stomach pinned open in a grotesque array of drapes and clamps. He lifted his head. For some reason no amount of general could ever keep him under. “I’m warning you, GUAM. Your specialisation is at stake here.” Guam nodded her head soberly. No matter how many organs she harvested for the RACP she knew she’d never get her FRACS. Not while surgeons competed over >$1 million private practices in the inner city.
“I’ve started a skin cancer clinic in Balmain.”, chirruped an offensively smug young practitioner walking past the theatre. “Of course it was all my own money. I’m not like those people who rely on others. I built it all myself.”
“What’s your draw card?”
“We take a regular procedure, stick lasers into it somehow, and market the hell out of it.”
“That sounds easy!”
“Lasers are expensive! I only have five million dollars capital per year here.”
“But it has panache, doesn’t it? Sex-appeal?” He leans in toward his friend. “We don’t suture your wound. We laser-suture it. We don’t diagnose your condition. We laser-diagnose. We don’t have bedside manner. We have laser focus.”
The smug young practitioner sighed. “Life is so tough that I have to have a YouTube channel with at least 500000000000 followers.”
“It’d be way cooler to have a Youtube Channel with 500000000 followers if it could somehow involve lasers,” thought the even younger practitioner, obviously disappointed that YouTube didn’t immediately equate to a ritzy practice in Balmain. “Not fair.”
Contemplating this, a drug rep offers them branded laser pointers with “viagrialis” and a penis etched into them.
~ fin ~
OR IS IT?!