I am the resident doctor.

First patient:  “I have pain in my right quadrant. No wait, it is under my left rib.  Hold it.  I think it is my liver.”

As the renowned doctor, I immediately googled: Where is my liver?

The results?  Your liver, my dear, has been dormant since late December, back in 69. What a lady, what a night.”

Second patient:  “I need to take a break.  My lower back is killing me.”

As the beloved doctor of all time, I put on my best bed side manner, and say:  “Hey lady, lay.  Lay across my big brass bed.”

Third patient: “chocolate.  I need chocolate. Where is your chocolate?”

As the sweetest doctor in the free world, I say:  “Sweet Caroline, good times never seemed so good.”

Fourth patient:  “I shot the sheriff.”

My reply, “But did you shoot the deputy?”

Fifth patient: “I have an identity crisis.”

“Oh who are you?”

“Exactly.  Who are you? Who who who who?”

“I really hate owls.  But on the other hand, there’s a golden band.”

“You know what, Doc? Your home spun remedies suck.  I am wanted dead or alive.”

“May I suggest? Quit riding that steel horse.”

“I would, if only I could catch the tiny dancer in my hand.”

“Sorry, but if you were born on the bayou, you just might be blinded by the light.”

“Can we cut the classic rock BS and do as the young chicken butt once told me:  Life is a highway. I want to ride it all night long.”

“I disagree.  Oh the movie never ends, it goes on and on and on and on.”

“Hey! Hey! My! My! I am the Doc, and I believe in dancing in the rain.”

“Oh yes! I think I know you!  Are you Mary Jane?”

A normal Thursday night, in NE Pennsylvania.

Well, almost.

It was a humid, rainy, stormy night.

Snoopy sat on his dog house in his flying ace outfit.

And dreamed of chasing down a dream.

In that magical moment, he turned into Tom Petty

And fell.







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