The Lost Journals of Doogie Howser, M.D.
BY Mike Baker and Pasha Malla
September 28, 1989
“The knee bone’s connected to the thigh bone.”—So juvenile, so sophomoric, so goddamn true.
November 17, 1989
Sometimes the best advice is in the last place you look, and by “best advice,” I mean, “my wristwatch.” And by “the last place you look,” I mean, “Mr. Cheswick’s esophagus.”
March 26, 1990
Life and death: the eternal dance. Mom: the eternal shrew.
May 17, 1990
Being a doctor it’s easy to forget how the human body contains not only blood, tissue, and nerves, but also emotions like love and hope. But then you remember, and you’re all, “Ew, ew.”
July 9, 1990
Damn it, Wanda—how am I supposed to know how to change a tire? I’m a doctor, not a car doctor, or “mechanic.”
August 30, 1990
Depeche Mode concert last night. On the way home, singing, “Put me to the test / Things in your chest,” Vinnie and I stopped by the hospital, where I tried to install a Sprint Model 6942 tachyarrhythmia lead to mend his broken heart.
November 23, 1990
Thanksgiving. I give thanks for my family, my health, and my $1400/week allowance.
January 2, 1991
This New Year, I’m making only one resolution: to be the best doctor I can be. And if that means doing breast exams “the old-fashioned way,” then so be it.
February 14, 1991
Valentine’s Day. Wanda and I had a fight after I left our lovemaking to finish myself off in the bathroom. No one satisfies me better than I satisfy myself. Not Wanda, not Vinnie—no one.
April 15, 1991
i’m on doogs computer!!! i’m on doogs computer!!! doog is a boner!!! regards, vinnie.
July 2, 1991
They say laughter is the best medicine. But calling the residents in to laugh at Mrs. Perkins’s diabetic shock—well, let’s just say that a shot of insulin might have been better medicine.
September 25, 1991
“If everyone gave an eye for an eye, we’d all be blind.” —Mahatma Gandhi. Whatever, Gandhi. How-ser! How-ser!
December 26, 1991
Another family Christmas. Another fucking stethoscope.
May 7, 1992
This week, I finally found myself. No, really. Vinnie and I split a sixty of Triple Sec and nine hours later I found myself sleeping in the bushes beside the Taco Bell, wearing nothing but a couple of napkins and a plastic sombrero.
November 22, 1992
Tonight Mom and Dad said I’m becoming distanced from them, that I’m driving a wedge between us by talking over their heads. I told them to fuck off—stat.
December 14, 1992
Surgery is only as complicated as you make it, and dressing Vinnie up in a blond wig while I removed an old man’s prostate was tremendously complicated—but, by all accounts, remarkably successful.
January 8, 1993
Living on my own has made me realize one simple thing: unlike the eagle that soars high through the majestic skies and the bear that burrows its way through endless seasons, my toilet won’t clean itself.
February 26, 1993
I’ve learned that love can be a lot like surgery. And breaking up with Wanda was a lot like dental surgery—dental surgery with a pair of hedge clippers and a polo mallet.
March 1, 1993
It’s difficult to imagine my life without medicine. But it’s even more difficult to imagine my life without these herpes sores.
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