The Georgetown Debacle

 

It was a dark and stormy night.
Okay, fine — not stormy. Just dark. The kind of dark that makes your alarm clock look smug, glowing red in the void like it knows it’s about to ruin your day.

Zero-dark-thirty. That unholy hour when only raccoons, existential dread, and people with bad life choices are awake. I stumbled out of bed to prep for a glamorous 72-mile expedition to Georgetown — a mystical land that exists entirely to test one’s patience and gas mileage.

Because nothing says “living the dream” like getting on I-35, the highway that doubles as both a transportation route and a psychological experiment in human suffering.

I crunched the numbers: leave by 7, arrive by 8:30. Perfect. That gave me enough buffer for traffic, apocalypse, or an impromptu midlife crisis. Dew on the windshield, defroster howling, coffee strong enough to dissolve enamel — I was ready.

Then, eighteen miles in, the phone rings.
That’s never the prelude to good news.

“Shit happens,” I sigh, which could honestly be engraved on humanity’s tombstone. “Just tell me what fresh nonsense this is. Spare me the song and dance.”

At first, it’s a “need to reschedule.” Mild annoyance. Manageable. Then the excuses start multiplying like unmedicated rabbits:

• The machine’s down.
• Actually, the test is only at the Round Rock office.
• And apparently, the doctor can only perform his sacred rituals within a 10-mile radius of that one building.

Sure. And I only write best when Mercury’s in retrograde and my Wi-Fi’s crying.

Look, if you’re running multiple clinics, maybe consider equipping them with, oh I don’t know — the same equipment. Otherwise, you’re just running a franchise of disappointment.

So I inhale deeply, choke down my rage smoothie, and agree to the change. “Email me the new details,” I say — the words of a man who still, against all reason, believes in basic competence.

We U-turn and head back to the compound. An hour later, I check my inbox. Nothing. No email. No confirmation. Just digital tumbleweeds rolling through the wasteland of my trust.

So now I have an appointment... somewhere... at some time... with someone. What could possibly go wrong?

Ah yes, professionalism — that delicate blend of chaos, confusion, and customer service so bad it makes you question the concept of civilization itself.

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