Yesterday I went to the eye doctor. I got lost and called the office. He answered the phone. I asked for directions. He said his practice is in a building that’s down the street and just around the cornea. He said he’d keep an eye out for me.
When I got there a handgun was leaving. The receptionist whispered to me, “It’s a shame — He’s just been diagnosed with glock-oma.”
I asked the receptionist if she knew the name of the band that was playing on the background music system in the waiting room. It was the Iris Rovers. She offered me some eye-scream while I was waiting.
When I saw the doctor we shook hands and he wanted to find out some background information about me. Somehow we started talking about boats. He told me that in his younger days he was marooned on a deserted eye-land during his quest to sail the seven sees.
When he got back his friends nicknamed him Pop-Eye.
He decided to go into politics. He ran for President of IllumiNation.
I mentioned the photo of a youngster on his desk. He said his son was graduating middle school this year — he was a good pupil.
As we talked, the doctor made notes on his eye-pad.
That’s all I got.