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"Ah, here it is," said Wilbur, looking up at the sign that offered Ancient Herbal Remedies in gold leaf against a crimson background. The sign was as old and decrepit as he was. Wilbur switched his cane to the other hand and held open the door for the 21-year old briefcase-carrying former stripper accompanying him.

The business smelled like yak asshairs and patchouli burning in a vat made of limburger cheese. The counter of the strip mall store blocked passage to the back area which was shrouded with beads and flowing curtains. There was nothing a visitor could touch within easy reach.

"I help you?" A truly ancient man smoking a long thin pipe appeared. Wilbur never saw him approach.

Wilbur reached over and snagged the young woman's hand. "Hello, Mr. Cha. You were recommended by a friend of mine. I'm hoping you can help me out."

"Sure, sure," said the prune-faced man with sallow skin. "Who your hot daughter?"

Wilbur smiled. "This is Candy, she's my wife. We just got married this morning."

Mr. Cha looked her up and down, from her expensive (bleached) blond hair, past her immense implants, down to her silk stockings fitted into Prada shoes. "Sure, whatever float your boat, chief. Who send you, Mick Jagger?"

"You know Mick Jagger?" asked Candy, her eyes batting long thick eyelashes like butterflies on a log.

"Sure, sure. You think someone that ugly get women naked based on personality? He regular customer." Mr. Cha pointed to a black and white signed photo of Mick and Keith Richards. "Richards a customer too, why he never die."

"Well, I need something similar to what Mick needed."

"Why? You got hottie already and marry. You must be rich."

Wilbur nodded. "I used to work for Facebook. Sold my stock and made my fortune, now it's time to enjoy it." He squeezed his wife's hand.

"Careful, baby, the nails aren't fully dry." She smiled with blazingly white, perfect teeth.

Turning back to Mr. Cha, he said, "No, I need something to help me, you know, down there."

Mr. Cha's face lit up, which made him look more like a carved pumpkin left on a porch for six weeks after Halloween. "That I help. Powdered tiger penis, make you hard as rock."

Wilbur leaned in. "I was hoping for some more, ah, volume, if you get what I mean."

Mr. Cha's face went back to the usual wrinklefest appearance. "Ah, that can be done, but most do not attempt. Dangerous side effects possible. I make manhood foot long and thick as soda can that stay hard for three hours at a time if you want to chance it. Guarantee only that penis will be huge and virile, turn up to eleven on boner scale."

Wilbur hooked his cane on the counter and scratched his balding pate. "What are the side effects?"

Mr. Cha started to address Candy. "First, possible explosive acne."

"I can deal with a pimple or two," she said. She kissed the top of Wilbur's head since she towered over the hunchbacked old man when she wore six-inch heels. "Won't make me love him any less."

Wilbur nodded, staring at Candy's chest as it defied gravity. "Go on."

"Then there terminal constipation."

"No shit? So what, he can poop whenever we jet off to the next resort. Airport terminals have lots of bathrooms."

Wilbur nodded, still staring at Candy's chest. "Go on."

"Okay, there possible loss of extremities," said Mr. Cha, tapping the end of his pipe on the edge of the counter to dislodge the ashes.

Candy wrapped her arms around Wilbur. "Baby, I think I'm extreme enough in bed so you don't have to worry about losing your sexual extremes."

Wilbur nodded, his words a bit muffled by Candy's chest. "Go on."

"You pay attention, mister? Fine. What about uncontrollable pyrokinesis? You okay with that?"

Candy laughed. "Not exactly sure about what that is but I can assure you that he's going to be able to move me to orgasm using more than his brain, especially if he'll be as hung as you say."

"You crazy, lady. Last one erection lasting more than four hours due to rigor mortis."

She looked in Wilbur's eyes. "Baby, we can't mix this cure with rigatoni, so no Italian food." She turned back to Mr. Cha. "We'll take it. How much?"

"Seventy five thousand American, cash only."

She set the briefcase she was carrying on the counter, popped open the two locks and pulled out seven ten thousand dollar packets of hundred dollar bills, then counted out half of an eighth pack. "Here you go."

Mr. Cha swept his arm across the top of the counter and the money vanished over the edge. He reached under the counter and pulled out a large white pill the size of a liter bottle of water. "Here you go. This suppository so fit in ass during tonight full moon and wait six hour. When done growing monster boner can have sex any time for as long as want."

Candy grabbed the pill and half-empty briefcase. "C'mon, baby, let's get back to the honeymoon suite. I'm going to ride you like a valkyrie going into battle."

Mr. Cha held up a hand. "Wait. That go in your ass, not his. He must insert and must hold your hand for full six hour. Must must."

She hesitated for a minute, then held the door open for her beaming husband as he waddled out with his cane.

---

Five minutes later, Mr. Charles yelled towards the back of the store. "Yo, Ethyl, start packin' our shit, baby. Got another sucker so we's gotta scoot and set up a new storefront. C'mon, skedaddle that sexy old butt of yours. We're eatin' at Sizzler's Steakhouse tonight! Yee-haw!"

 

Why? | What?

– What, at the same time?
– Yup. This patient should have read the instructions with the utmost care.
– Professor, but isn’t acetylsalicylic acid one of the safest drugs in the market?
– It is… if you use it carefully. Misusing drugs usually leads to horrible cross-effects and, in unfortunate cases like this, to death.
Doctor Robert, how sure are we that the side effects were really caused by taking aspirin and not something else?
– The autopsy revealed that the only thing he ate before his demise was a cheese sandwich. This, and the drug, were the ultimate cause of his death. Now, on to observation room six—
– Doctor, how is it possible that a simple cheese sandwich could have these effects?
– Jesus Christ, have you read your Katzung? You there, what’s the problem?
– Uh, yes Doctor. Its just that—well—it seems odd that something as simple as aspirin could lead to such horrible results.
– Again, it wasn’t the aspirin by itself. As I’ve told you numerous times, the patient had eaten food that specifically should not be consumed before taking aspirin.
– But, a simple cheese sandwich—
– It wasn’t a ‘simple cheese sandwich’. It was alligator-cheese sandwich. Look up its fat content, it’s enough to make you grow pimples all over your body. These will spontaneously explode.
– But the constipation
– Ah yes. I suppose your book doesn’t cover that. This particular alligator was called Cynthia. Moving on…
– What about the patient’s arms? How can you lose—
– Unfortunate combination of place and time of herb picking. The sandwich contained lettuce grown in Cobija, Bolivia. That in and of itself isn’t that bad, but this one was picked on Memorial Day.
– And the burns?
– Those were actually external flames created by the patient. Comes from the rye bread having a prime number of caraway seeds per slice. The bread industry has been careless in that sense—
– And the priapism?
– A pickle. Specifically cut to be in the shape of Muncie, Indiana.

The students took notes. «Get used to it, boys»—Doctor Robert thought—«This is the first of many horrific cases you’ll see if you become doctors.»

– Any other question?

The room stood silent.

– This here is, sadly, a common case and your duty is to properly educate your patients about these dangers.
– C…common? How… how common?
– At this hospital, it’s known as “a number 8”. Now, on to observation room six.


A ReQuested writeup: «someone fill Side effects include explosive acne, terminal constipation, loss of extremities, uncontrollable pyrokinesis, and erections lasting more than four hours due to rigor mortis.»

Based on an episode of Orson's Farm called Orson's Diner. See this TVTropes entry for the exact joke.

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