Remorseless Agony

This was to be one of those operations that are done without anaesthetic. For that reason the patient was strapped to the bed in the operating room. For reasons known only to the male patient he signed away his right to bite and refused to chew down on a rectangular tube of rubber.

Preparations were under way by the underlings in this surgical procedure. The man in charge of the vital signs monitor was finding it difficult to receive a good transmission so he thumped the top of the screen and righted the picture. The “Keep clear” man had his two hot irons ready and sizzling to uncrease the patient back to life if required and a porter was holding a bucket.

High drama ensued in the theatre as the doctor made his entrance. The bondaged patient sucked in a sharp outtake of breath that, in the natural law of respiration was then blown out. Even though you could cut the tension with a Stanley knife the patient reflected on the difference between sucking and blowing and vowed to experiment on instead of sucking Candy, blowing Candy.

The doctor said. “Magic Sponge.”

The Magic Sponge is a legendary piece of apparatus that cured footballers of the past of all aches and pains. This relic with the temperature of Antarctica should be doused with frequency on today’s mollycoddled individuals; they’d think twice about feigning injury.

The doctor’s brow was dripping with sweat that filled his glasses with condensation. He wiped his forehead with the sponge before soaking the patient’s appendage with water. The patient screamed a blood-curdling yell. The doctor lifted his glasses off his nose to have a look at the patient’s member. A few minutes passed by before the doctor spoke again.

“It’s like stripping wallpaper. You must wait until it’s immersed in properly. Scalpel.”

The patient went into shock when he heard the feared, dreaded, bladed instrument word but was brought back to normality by several slaps to the jaw by one of the attendants.

“Silly me,” Said the doctor. “I must try and get in at a reasonable time at nights. All these parties will be the death of me. I meant to say tweezers.”

The patient shrank visibly in his chained up position. He’d felt shame before. Like the time he said in an off the cuff remark to his friends, he preferred Boy George when he had long hair. But this was shame times ten. Tweezers? He’d never be able to look anyone in the eye again.

The doctor grappled with the patient’s extremity and hurt was etched on the patient’s face. The doctor proclaimed he’d never done microsurgery like this before. With his pulse throbbing, his heart racing, his muscles involuntarily in a spasm, the patient’s whole being was brought to the boil. With a yank the doctor ejected the Elastoplast from the patient’s pinkie toe.

The operation was a success. The patient could understand why women always say after childbirth they forget about the pain they’ve went through. The patient, emphatically, felt the same.

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2 Comments on “Remorseless Agony”

  1. JM Says:

    JW – my colleague, Dr Freud, has given this article his seal of approval ; if you had mentioned the Electra Complex he would have awarded a star.

    BTW – he considers that it is the Magic Sponge that has the real problem here.


  2. theroyalist Says:


    Sigmund obviously prefers the coil to the sponge. However, whipping off the plaster with a coil would give the patient the Electric complexion and could cause complications. Using this method could result in a half pulled off dressing on a raw hairy toe. What a sight would be the bedraggled digit.


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