“Doctor, You’re Wrong — and My Toothbrush Proves It”

 

“Doctor, You’re Wrong — and My Toothbrush Proves It”

(A comedic, philosophical monologue)

(Lights up. A patient sits on the edge of an examination table. The doctor stands just out of frame, silent. The patient gestures wildly, mid-rant.)

PATIENT:
No, no, no, Doctor — you’re wrong.
You’re telling me people die because their hearts stop? Because their lungs forget how to cooperate? That’s adorable.
You think death’s a medical problem.

Let me enlighten you, Doc — death is motivational burnout.

It starts with the toothbrush.
Oh yes. You miss one morning — “eh, I’ll brush tomorrow.”
That’s not laziness, Doctor. That’s the first sign of cosmic surrender.
Next thing you know, you’re eating pudding for dinner and calling your goldfish “Mate.”

Then comes the roof rack.
You ever notice how people with roof racks are alive?
They’re spontaneous. They camp, they surf, they disappear into the mountains to “find themselves.”
The day that rack comes off — poof — they’re just… driving to the pharmacy.
Adventure’s over. Roof’s naked. Soul’s in neutral.

And then — then — the last breath.
You lean in with your stethoscope, all serious, like you’re listening for jazz.
But you’ve missed the beat, Doc.
It’s not the breath that kills you.
It’s the moment you’ve got nothing left to say before you take it.

The toothbrush, the roof rack, the breath — they’re not random, they’re the holy trinity of existence.
Cleanliness. Movement. Purpose.
Lose one, and the universe starts repossessing your atoms.

So don’t talk to me about blood pressure.
Don’t prescribe me “rest.”
I don’t need rest, Doctor — I need a reason.

You want to cure death?
Find me a new roof rack.
Find me a toothbrush that believes in me.
Find me a reason to take one more ridiculous, glorious breath.

(Pause. Grins.)
Because until then, Doc — I’m not dying.
I’m just... slightly overdue for an adventure.

(Lights fade. End.)