After my wife recovered from the shock of me being diagnosed with malignant arteriovenous malformations, she found the silver lining:
Judith: At least the world's best neurosurgeon lives on this block.
Steve: I don't plan to use her.
Judith: Why not?
Steve: She trained at Harvard Medical School. She may be elitist.
Judith: So what?
Steve: Also, she may be too intellectual.
Judith: That's a problem?
Steve: Absolutely. She's not "down home." People don't connect with her.
Judith: You don't want to use Priscilla Johnston, the world's best neurosurgeon?
Steve: No. Priscilla doesn't get it.
Judith: What do you mean "get it?"
Steve: She doesn't understand my problems. She doesn't know what it is like to go through life with a third-rate intelligence.
Judith: So who will operate on your brain?
Steve: Bobby.
Judith: Bobby who?
Steve: Bobby Burpa.
Judith: The boat mechanic?
Steve: Right.
Judith: But he is not a doctor.
Steve: Yes but he knows a lot about NASCAR. I'll bet Priscilla couldn't name three NASCAR drivers.
Judith: Any other qualifications?
Steve: He has experience trying to fix things.
Judith: He can't even fix a boat. In fact, he can't even remember to bring the right tools.
Steve: That's what I like about Bobby. He's a regular guy. Makes mistakes just like the rest of us.
Judith: You know, Bobby might just improve your brain.
Steve: Bobby is the salt of the earth. Small town. Pro-life. Flies the flag on holidays. Not too bright, but a great jet-skier.
Judith: Bobby certainly understands the problems of living today with a room-temperature IQ.
Steve: Bobby gets it. He has a house full of guns.
Judith: You don't use guns for neurosurgery.
Steve: Best of all, Bobby doesn't think he is better than the rest of us.
Judith: With reason.
Steve: I bet Priscilla thinks she's better than me just because she's the world's greatest neurosurgeon. Those doctors think they're so smart. Using Bobby will show them a thing or two.
Judith: Well, it's your funeral.
Steve: That reminds me. If something should happen to me, hire Billy to direct the funeral.
Judith: Billy who?
Steve: The gardener who works next door.
Judith: He's not a funeral director.
Steve: No. But he's a great soccer dad and he can field-dress a moose.
