Doctor, Doctor


You have been diagnosed with poverty. Your poverty comes with a side of McDonald's. Don’t Mc-pick-$2; it’ll only make it worse.

You have been diagnosed with a case of 1960's Brooklyn. Your diagnosis may include a decision to marry your next-door neighbor. There is no cure for this.

You have been diagnosed with a case of special teams. Special teams are supposed to not drop balls, in both the literal and metaphorical sense. Have you dropped the ball recently? Did it feel like a relief? If so, we should rethink your contract.

You have been diagnosed as a medical miracle. Don’t let your head get too big, unless that is a key part of the miracle.

You have been diagnosed with a case of temporal handsomeness. Take many selfies, for your nose will perplex future generations.

You have been diagnosed with a case of dissertation. This means your behavior will be theorized by future 20-somethings. I typically prescribe at least three public statements on feminism when faced with this uncertain outcome. Your survival rate will be determined by the internet. Good luck.

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