Being Donald Trump’s doctor is hard. Imagine being responsible for the well-being of one of the most important men in America. A man who possesses at least four extra chromosomes in case the others try to unionize. A man whose body is so perfect — so masculine — that it defies everything you know about medicine.
Now imagine you’ve been high since 1983, when a Trading Places-style mixup landed you permanently in the offices of a wealthy Park Avenue doctor to the stars.
Congratulations. Now you know what it’s like to be Dr. Harold Bornstein.
A couple of months ago, you wrote a letter to news media about how your client would be the healthiest person to ever be elected president. You added into your calculus the fact that most presidential nominees in American history lived in different eras, which makes Trump relatively healthier than than all of them. Because they're dead.
Whatever. Your client liked the letter and spending five minutes writing it wasn't a bad way to make $45.
Problem is, the letter actually did find its way to the media. Dammit! Now you’ve got some news jag-off in your office trying to get up in your shit. It's the ass crack of 9:45 A.M. and this guy's asking questions and taking pictures.
You are not happy.
You’ve got better things to do today. Big things to do today. If this dumbass would just get out of here, you would be free to:
- Drop the needle on some Foghat and take a gagger to the face with your client
- Head over to Lewandowski’s with some cans of keyboard cleaner
- Cruise Craigslist for mad scientist acting jobs and party appearances
- Finish the half-empty Mad Dog hidden under your white coat
- Head under the bridge, say what’s up to Jerrod
- Hit a fat lightbulb and troll Malala YouTube videos
- Go to Union Square bench, pretend to be working on equation, shout “eureka”
- Pawn Stars
- Replace the Gro-light your cat Starship knocked over in 2013
- Sell weed to Audrey Pence
Yeah, you’ve got a lot on your plate today. Anything but this shit.