Eye Spy with My Excellent Eyes...

It's been three months since my right eyeball got the lube and filter treatment called a Vitrectomy, so I just had my final follow-up appointment this week. Dr. Steven Schwartz, Retina Hooha-in-Chief at the Jules Stein Eye Clinic in Westwood, CA, did the honors. Helluva surgeon. Helluva guy. His diagnosis coming right up, but first, this:

Most of my visit was spent in the Waiting Room from Hell. Okay, not Hell, literally. I mean there wasn't real fire and brimstone. I didn't see any actual devils, demons, or RNC officials. So let's just say it's the waiting room for Hell's Waiting Room and the hell with it. (See where I went with that? Clever, huh?)

It certainly was crowded as Hell. Wherever you looked, there were oodles of vision-challenged geezers, all hoping to complete their appointment with their eye doc before it was time for their appointment with St. Peter.

My appointment was scheduled for Noon. Doc didn't see me until 3:30. That means my wait was almost two hours plus the… no, lessee, carry the six plus the square root of, um…it was almost a nine hour delay! Excuses proffered ranged from “unscheduled surgery” to traffic on the 405, to Eliot Spitzer's wandering wiener.

Earnest administrators and student doctors updated us with an occasional, bellowed announcement that appointments were running a “half-hour late.” Any patient above the age of two knows the phrase “half-hour late” is the medical euphemism for “three-hours late.” In fact, Quantum Physicists have studied this continuum disconnect in their time travel research for years, even attempting to apply it to Goldberg's Paradigm Shift Theory. (And by “have studied” I mean “will study.” Time travel has always been confusing, and by that I mean will always be confusing.)

An informal survey (no ball gowns) of those present in the Waiting Room from Hell produced these additional lateness causational data:

(1) Jules Stein's Clinic's outstanding reputation.
(2) The overall aging of America, and concomitant eye issues.
(3) Half the patients there thought they were in the urology lab.

Ladies and germs, did I mention these people were old? On average, their age ranged from one-foot-in-the-grave to both-feet-in-the-grave. I don't want to say the other patients were older than me, but they gave me the affectionate nickname: “Out of my way, punk-ass bastard!”

Adding to the confusion, many were blind as a bat. Others were blinder than bats and brought their own seeing-eye bats. All in all, though, they were a feisty lot (the patients, not the bats). And despite the delays, many hung in there upside down without complaint (the bats, not the patients).

Speaking of feisty--some patients even came strapped. Some were armed with red-tipped fighting canes. Others swung their oxygen bottles Bolo-style to clear their paths. Several arrived pushing up-armored walkers.

Most filled the time with a sport that combined Musical Chairs and Blind Man's Bluff. Winners won the right to sit in one of the few available chairs. A producer from OF-TV (formerly “The Old Fart Channel”) was on hand to develop a reality show hosted by Donny Osmond and the late Joan Rivers.

Oh, hey, look at that, almost finished here and I buried the lede-neglecting to pass along my good news. The good news is when I did see the talented Doc Schwartz, he was ecstatic about my Peepers. He was so pleased, in fact, he fired me as a patient. He said my eyesight was now testing at “20-25” in either eye. (Before the surgery, my right eye had tested at “20-What Eye Chart?”) He said to come see him in a year or so, gave me a pat on the ass and sent me on my way.

I was so delighted with my prognosis, that before leaving, I sucker-punched an eighty-something double-cataract victim and stole his Bolo. Good times, my friends, good times.

PESKY PRIZE #2: The Unfaithful Eight

Every time the phone rings, their pucker factor goes up to Eleven. When their accountants ask about a “couple of unusual withdrawals” in that special account they maintain, they stammer and sweat. When dark sedans circle or cop cars prowl outside their homes, their blood pressure spikes. When “Love Potion #9” plays on the radio, they change the station. When someone suggests “hanging is too good” for Client #9, they change the topic.

“They” are Emperor Club VIP Clients Numbers One through Eight.

The Unfaithful Eight, AKA Eight Men (not yet) Out(ted), are the first anonymous winners of the World’s Most Valuable Award, The Pesky Prize. The second ever Pesky Prize is awarded anonymously because the public-at-large and, more importantly, Pesky Gadabout, doesn’t know the recipient’s identity—yet. And it’s a sure bet they dearly want it to stay that way. But Pesky knows the Unfaithful Eight’s time will, er, come--faster than you can say “just leave it on the dresser.”

For them, it won’t be long before the fit hits the shan. Even as we speak, tabloid editors around the world are bellowing at bedraggled reporters to find fresh meat for the biggest story of sex, politics, and money 2008 has produced. Pesky suspects reporters might find them either enjoying one for the road or in church, thanking the Patron Saint of Sexual Misconduct for picking Eliot Spitzer, not them, to take one for the team. They’re left to wonder how much longer Spitzer will remain the Sole Sultan of Assignation, the Single Swallow of Capistrano, the Lone Arranger of Sexual Danger, the Solitary Subject of the Media’s Sizzling Spotlight.

Soon enough the Unfaithful Eight will have to convince their spouses to get dressed up and stand in front of hundreds of reporters, each thinking the same thought: “that’s the one he didn’t want to have sex with.” And is there a crueler sight than the crestfallen, heartbroken spouse, enticed by the man who betrayed her, standing bravely by his side?

And finally, Pesky wonders, could there ever be a better moment in live TV if, following this sad cheater’s waltz, in the instant after hubby finishes his Mea Culpa, wifey leans toward the mike and says: “For those of you who are interested, and that includes the scumbag standing next to me, I’ve just started doing the pool boy.”

Spitzer? I hardly Knew Her!

No sane man as (book) smart as Spitzer would have done what he did without having serious psychological issues--IMO. Doesn't excuse it. Dude apparently needed counselling or Bobbitizing.

I’m no shrink, but I’d suggest putting him on “Suicide Watch.” It is a shame that he was so flawed as a human, considering the good he did as a prosecutor of corporate evildoers. I guess we as a nation are very fortunate that Ralph Nader was born without a penis.

For what its' worth, the Pope just added an eighth sin to his New Sin List: "Overpaying for Hookers."

We're here all week. Try the veal.

The Dems Are Back! (Sexwisedly-speaking)

Congratulations to the Democratic Party, which, after a decade-long period spent watching GOP sexual trailblazing, has just roared back to the top of the squirming, moaning, heavy-breathing, political sex-scandal slag heap Monday behind comeback kid, Eliot Spitzer.

The last time the Dems had a firm handle on sexual shenanigan leadership was when Monica Lewinski had a firm handle on Bill Clinton. Since then, it’s been all GOP all the time, spearheaded by the arrayed manhoods of Sens. Larry “Wide Stance” Craig, David “D.C. Madam” Vitter and Cong. Mark “Page from My Book” Foley.

Politician scandals have been supplemented by the woes of Right Wing pundits like Bill “Grab My Faloofah” O’Reilly, as well as those of Conservative Evangelical Preachers. The Dems have had no answer for the likes of Rev. Ted Haggard, who told his National Evangelical Assoc. to get flocked when he admitted he was “guilty of sexual immorality.”

Or Archbishop Earl Paulk, 80 years young, head of Georgia’s Cathedral of the Holy Spirit, who apparently was the real Daddy his brother’s kid. Obviously Lazarus was not the only dead thing that rose again.

The website "recovering Liberal.com" has a list of 55 or more alleged Tighty-Righty sexual offenders in its "GOP Pervert Hall of Shame," accuracy of which I cannot confirm.

In other news Monday, the Pope has just identified seven new “social" sins. The announcement was buried in coverage of the Spitzergate Scandal, but three of the newcomers—“polluting the environment,” "excessive wealth,” and “creating poverty”---drew the attention of the White House. Late Monday, President Bush announced he would veto all three sins.