Pool_2

>> veritas <<

"Oh, damn! Damn damn damn! Gwen, how did I get scheduled for frigging Philadelphia tomorrow?" He knew. His own indiscriminate yes-saying caused this. What Doctor Blake really meant was, Gwen, why didn't you stop me from screwing up my schedule again? As Gwen was lobbing secretarial I told you so's, finger wagging, and endlessly iterating don't do your own scheduling's with a smattering of airhead references tossed in, for spice, Blake was wildly dialing pager sequences, moaning into the receiver, "Macaluso! Roger Wilko. Yo! Mac! I need you! Call back. Call back, big buddy. Uncle Milty neeeeds yoooo." This was the same renowned Milton Blake who was elected to the prestigious Emily DeWit-Haberstrom Emeritus Professor of Orthopedic Surgery Chair. Gwen was babbling that his Chair ought to have a flush lever for all the shit he dumps on everybody. The Emeritus Professor flipped her the bird which she flipped back with a plffsssst sound track. People came from all over the world to see this man when their own doctors were frozen into inaction, having no idea as what to do for strange bone pathologies, and simply giving up. Their medical programming did not take them past impasse. The ominous, "Science has no answer for what you have," did not preclude Milton Blake from having a say. "Science my ass," was his distinguished reply, "It's a wall. Jump it." Science is a teasing aroma. It can be easy or impossible to follow. Seldom is it explicit. You can formulate a thousand highly logical questions. But it doesn't answer, according to Blake." You need both ends," as he pointed at his brain with one hand and grabbed his crotch with the other. He didn't like having his curiosities settled by autopsy. "They come here to be saved, not for us to be educated." Blake's many intuitive successes