Total Integrated Redesign Digestive System

"Where's Dr. Bunyan?" I asked. "I thought he was going to see me."

"Dr. Bunyan has ... retired," said the new doctor. "I'm Dr. Cestode. How can I help you?"

Perhaps I should have been more suspicious when my appointment was reassigned to a new and unfamiliar doctor, but I had been feeling pretty scummy and wasn't in an inquisitive mood.

"I've been experiencing a bit of upset stomach," I explained. "It's probably very minor, but the usual over-the-counter stuff doesn't seem to be working, so I thought I'd come in and have Dr. Bunyan take a look."

"Why don't you let me be the judge of how serious your ailment is?" crooned Dr. Cestode. "As it happens, this is your lucky day! I happen to be an expert on digestive ailments. We'll just run a few tests and fix you up with the latest in gastrointestinal technology."

"I beg your pardon?" I stammered. "You've already decided on treatment before the tests?"

"Oh, no," scoffed Dr. Cestode smoothly. "I'm just speaking in general terms. I will, of course, prescribe what is suitable for your condition, whatever it may turn out to be. If any treatment is necessary, however, the solution is likely to involve some form of cutting-edge gastrointestinal technology."

"Oh, I see," I said, though I didn't quite.

I took my tests and went home, expecting to return in about a week. So I was surprised to receive a call from Dr. Cestode's office the very next day, urging me in the strongest terms to come back in that very afternoon. I didn't have to be told twice.

"My goodness, Dr. Cestode!" I gasped. "What could be so serious that you called me back in so soon? Do I have cancer?"

"Relax," said Dr. Cestode soothingly. "A little! Don't relax too much! No, you don't have cancer, but your digestive system is hopelessly old fashioned and out of date."

"Old fashioned? Out of date?" I whimpered. "I don't understand."

"Relax," repeated Dr. Cestode. "That's what you have me for. I will install the latest, most modern, state-of-the-art digestive system for you."

"You're going to replace my digestive system?" I peeped.

"No, not replace exactly," he said. "Supplement. At first. I will do this the safest way possible. First, I will install a small version of the new digestive system. You might call it a 'pilot project.' For a while, you will have two complementary digestive systems. Gradually, I will add modules, or segments, as we like to call them, and the new, efficient system will replace the old. But only when it's ready to do so!"

"Wh-what is this ... system you're talking about?" I asked.

"We call it 'TIRDS.' That's an acronym for 'Total Integrated Redesign Digestive System.' It's the latest in gastrointestinal technology. Did I mention that?"

"Um, weird-sounding name," I replied. "What does the 'Redesign' bit mean? It sounds kind of stupid."

"Now, don't you go worrying about the meaning," Dr. Cestode chided good-naturedly. "They just needed a neat-sounding acronym."

Then I made the most insanely stupid statement that ever I uttered in my entire life: "Well, you're the doctor."

The operation was long and expensive, but it was going to solve my gastrointestinal problems, at least.

I was very disappointed when they got worse, instead. I expected to have to endure a period of healing, and I toughed it out for several months, but I just got weaker and sicker. Back I went to Dr. Cestode.

"You know," I commented to the desk lady as she collected my latest exorbitant co-pay, "this stuff is more expensive than I remember."

"Oh, that's just a cost-cutting measure," she drawled.

"Cost-cutting ... ?" I spluttered. "But my costs are going up!"

"Oh, your costs," she scoffed. "Of course, your costs are going up. I was talking about our costs. Nothing cuts costs like quadrupling your charges, huh?"

"That's outrageous!" I protested.

"Look, Bubba," she said, "if you're going to gripe about how crappy medical insurance is, you're just going to have to write another story. That's not what this one's about."

Ok. Fair enough. I went in to air my complaints to Dr. Cestode.

"I can't take much more of this," I whined. "I don't think your TIRDS thingy is working. I want my old digestion back."

Dr. Cestode poked and prodded and "hmm-ed" for a while. Then he had x-rays taken and asked me to return in a couple of days.

When I did return, the doctor was poring over the x-rays. I took a look myself. I couldn't believe my eyes.

"That ... that looks like a ... tapeworm!" I cried. "How did that get in there?"

"Well, of course, it's a tapeworm," he said, looking at me as if I were an idiot, which I began to realize that I was. "That's what TIRDS is. The most efficient food-processing system known to science."

I doubted that, but I opted for going straight to the heart of the matter: "You are going to take it out, aren't you?"

"Yes, I suppose you're right," he admitted. "This tapeworm screwed you up pretty badly." He patted me reassuringly on the head.

And so, the second operation followed the first. I was very weak, tired, and aching, but at least, the tapeworm was out.

Imagine my surprise when my health continued to decline.

So I dragged myself back to Dr. Cestode to see what could have gone wrong this time. He took more x-rays. I still had a tapeworm.

"How on earth did that happen?" I wailed. "I thought you took that damn' thing out!"

"Oh, I did," he smiled affably. "I replaced it with another one."

"I ... beg ... your ... pardon?" I screamed. As loudly as my condition allowed.

"TIRDS is definitely the way to go," he explained. "We just got a bad worm."

"Well, get. it. the. hell. out. of. me!" I screeched. "And don't replace it with a third one! Understand?"

"Oh, don't worry," he assured me. "I won't."

So then came the third operation. It was worse than the other two, but now I was sure that I was free of tapeworms.

Um, no such luck. My health continued to decline.

"Dr. Cestode!" I gasped, as I crawled into his office for the last time. "What's wrong with me? I could swear I have another tapeworm, but I know you swore you weren't going to give me another, so that can't be it, right?"

"I didn't give you another," he replied calmly. "I put the first one back in."

"Why?" I pleaded. "Why?" Words were failing me.

"Well, he was the best we could get," said Dr. Cestode simply. "No one else wanted the contract. You're a disaster, you know. Anyway, there's no road back from TIRDS. "

"Are you trying to kill me?" I sobbed. "Because if you are, you're doing a good job of it."

"Not ... as such," he said. "Good hosts are hard to find."

I took a closer look at Dr. Cestode. Understanding overtook me.

"Why, you're a tapeworm, yourself!" I gasped.

"Of course, I'm a tapeworm," he said, as matter-of-factly as if he'd just remarked on how sunny the weather was. "All of the best people are."

"Like ...?" I prompted.

He shrugged ... as much as a tapeworm could. "Like the governor ... the captains of industry ... the legislators ..."

"The ... the legislators!" I sputtered incredulously. "But they're our representatives! They can't be tapeworms! I grant you the others."

"If you want representatives," Dr. Cestode laughed, "you'll have to buy your own. These are taken."

"They can't all be tapeworms!" I protested.

"Oh, no, they aren't," he admitted. "Only the majority. The others are other species of parasitic flatworms."

That explained a lot. I felt better.