COMMONTATOR: Ricky Benedict, Prescription Medicine Abuser
How hard is it to shuffle 30 pills into an amber-colored bottle, slap a label on it, and stuff it in a useless paper bag?
I didn't realize spending 14 years in higher education means you can take your God damn time getting people the medication they need to get high, uh, better.
If being a pharmacist promises I get to mill around on an elevated platform while you fidget in a plastic chair under the glare of fluorescent lights or waste time getting freaky with the blood pressure center, then sign me up. I can move with a snail-like pace like you've never seen.
People are crashing ... err ... dying and you sloths in white coats are plodding around like it's no big deal.
I mean, I go to a lot of trouble heading to the "doctor" to get this precious piece of paper, and you treat me as if I have nothing better to do than circle the block 56 times. Look at me ... I'm so strung-ou-uh tired, I can barely tie my shoes. Do you think I have other errands to run?
It's sad that I take less time cutting ... err ... cherishing each sweet capsule that holds the blessed relief that only biscuits .. err ... Numprophan can provide, than you do filling my order, Merle Laggard.
Before I pass out in a pool of my own urine in the snack aisle, let me ask again: Could this pharmacy be any slower?
