Dusty the Oncologist

So in comes Mary J Face
and she’s walking like
she just had a sex change
and she’s screaming
at the top of her lungs,
"I don’t molest children"
and sure enough Mr. Packenbush
is sneaking into all the
bathroom stalls,
spitting on the toilet paper
and no matter how often I page
Dusty and Dusty says,
"Mr. Packenbush, we can’t
have you spitting on the toilet paper,"
and he’s always like,
"I need my last kicks!"
which we can’t argue with
so now Mary J Face is smokin’
out of something that resembles a penis
and Dusty’s sighing because
"this isn’t his job."
"Mrs. Face, you know you can’t
smoke that here,"
which sends her in a tizzy about the time
her grandson built a seven foot bong
called Kilimanjaro and
what the flying fuck is wrong with people these days-
can’t appreciate true art-
blah blah blah.
So I give her an apple to calm her down
and it’s a real juicy apple so it works
and everything is quiet.

Until Dusty comes blazing in
and he’s shooting rubber bands at everyone
in the room and Mr. Packenbush
takes one where it counts.
And Dusty’s really lost it this time.
And he’s startin’ to sound like
Mr. Packenbush’s brother Randy-
he comes in every Wednesday to visit.
He fought in Nam or was it Korea? and Dusty’s
gathering everyone up to build "the trenches-"
calling for us to "bring out the dead,"
which I can’t let happen,
we’ve got a wall with
stars and glitter
and pictures of all the kids
and what if one of the kids walks in-
we can’t have Dusty
flippin’ over couches,
crouched behind them flinging
rubber bands so I grab
good ol’ Mary J Face’s penis bong
and throw it in my purse,
army-crawling it over to Dusty
who surrenders at the sight
of a white tissue I am waving.

So Dusty’s sitting in the trenches,
hitting the MJ
while Mary J Face sucks
on my juicy apple
and Mr. Packenbush is back to scaring
the ladies in the bathroom,
crawling under the stalls and spitting
on the toilet paper.