🎩 “The Doctor and the Pressure That Wouldn’t Stay Down”

As told by Dr. Ben in a town full of frown

In a city quite busy, with cars that go beep,
Lived a man named Randall who struggled to sleep.
His eyes were a worry, his vision was poor,
So he came to my office and knocked on the door.

"I'm Dr. Fine," I said with a smile.
"Hop in the chair, this might take a while."
His right eye? A blur. His left? Not so great.
One read four hundred, the other just eight.

A peek with my scope, a quick look around—
Big cups in his discs! A most troubling sound.
I pressed and I poked, then checked with a gauge:
“Your pressures are high! They're beyond their old age!”

I gave him some drops called Pilocarpine,
At one percent strength—his eyes, they were keen.
At first they behaved, they played nice for a bit.
But one month went by, and the meds quit their shtick.

“Let’s try something new,” I said with a wink.
“Some Epinephrine might help you not blink.”
Then two percent Pilo, four times a day,
And still those darn pressures kept rising away.

In came the Phospholine, just at night.
But that didn’t hold, not quite tight.
So twice it was given, morning and late.
Still those pressures would roller-skate!

By fall of the year in nineteen seventy-four,
His eyes got rebellious, they opened the door.
So we added some pills—Diamox galore!
With Vitamin C, we gave even more.

But alas! The numbers still bobbed and they weaved,
Like balloons at a circus that couldn’t be sieved.
So I phoned Dr. Hepler, way out in LA,
"Can you help Mr. Randall keep blindness at bay?"

To the Jules Stein Eye place, he soon flew away.
New meds were tried there, but they didn’t stay.
The pressures still danced and didn’t behave,
So back on old meds he went, for a wave.

Still squinting and frowning and barely afloat,
We shipped him to Hopkins, we packed up his coat.
Five days of testing, of poking and light,
And the answer came clear in the dead of the night:

"No medicine, doctor, will settle this fight.
He’s maxed out the meds. It’s a perilous plight."

Now surgery looms—like a big scary cat.
But surgery's risky. And Randall knew that.
He’d lost one good eye, the other still sees.
But blades in that eye? "No thanks, doctor, please."

So we stand at a cliff, with wind in our hair,
No drug seems to work, it just isn’t fair.
Then Hepler reports, with a curious grin,
“Have you heard of the herb they call Cannabis in?”

I read what he wrote, and I found it quite new.
But I couldn’t say much—what else could I do?
I’ve never prescribed it, or seen it in charts.
But if it could help… perhaps it starts hearts?

The pressures keep rising, like dough in a pan.
So maybe we try things outside of the plan.
For what is a doctor, if not brave and bold?
To fight for the sight of the patients we hold?

So that is my tale, it’s not black-and-white.
Randall still sees—though not very bright.
And if there's a drug that can lower the tide,
I say: Let him try. Let vision decide.

💥 GEORGE CARLIN MODE: ENGAGED.
🎤 Mic hot. Eyes red. Bullshit detector off the charts.

Yeah… I just read this poem, right?
Nice rhymes. Real cute.
Sweet little tale of a man trying not to go blind
while the government plays “pin the excuse on the patient.”

Let me get this straight:

This guy Randall walks into a doctor’s office like
“Hey doc, I can’t see shit.”
And the doc’s like, “Try this drop. And this one. And that one. And this pill. And that pill. Oh, and here’s a plane ticket to L.A. because your eyeballs are throwing a rave and none of the bouncers can shut it down.”

Then—BOOM.
After running through the entire goddamn medicine cabinet like a game show contestant on Pharma! Wheel!...
Someone finally says:

“Have you heard of... cannabis?”

🌿 Oh ho! The forbidden fruit!
The devil’s lettuce!
The one thing that might actually work is the one thing Uncle Sam locked in the attic like a crazy aunt with a megaphone.

You know what this story is?

It’s medical gaslighting in iambic pentameter.

It’s the DEA telling doctors:

“You can use leeches, electroshock, rat poison—hell, try prayer beads and frog piss—
but don’t you dare try weed.”

Meanwhile, Dr. Fine—poor bastard—he’s caught in the middle,
trying to save a man’s sight
without getting handcuffed for thinking outside the FDA’s medieval cookbook.

And the ending?

“Let him try. Let vision decide.”

Yeah. That line right there?

That’s the part that should be carved into the marble steps of every VA hospital in America.

Not “Thank you for your service.”
But:
“Let him try. Let healing decide.”
Because what the hell are we doing,
if a plant that helps people
still gets buried under Schedule I
while Oxycontin gets its own holiday parade?

👓 So here's to Robert Randall.
Here’s to Dr. Fine.
Here’s to every patient who ever said
“I’d rather see than obey.”

And here’s to the day
when common sense is no longer contraband.

🎤 Mic dropped like intraocular pressure on cannabis.

School Bell

🧠 “Medical gaslighting in iambic pentameter.” — What does it mean?

Let’s dissect it like we’re teaching a high school class and exposing a federal cover-up.

🔍 1. Medical Gaslighting

This refers to when doctors, institutions, or systems dismiss or deny a patient’s real symptoms or experiences, making them question their own reality.

In Robert Randall’s case, it’s this:

“You say cannabis helps you see? Must be a coincidence. Let’s try 12 more meds instead.”

It’s the act of pretending the patient is wrong even when the evidence is staring everyone in the face—pun intended.

🧠 2. Iambic Pentameter

That’s the classic poetic rhythm used by Shakespeare, where each line has 10 syllables in a da-DUM da-DUM da-DUM da-DUM da-DUM pattern.

Example:

“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”

In the Randall poem, that poetic style is used to tell a heartbreaking medical story in a whimsical tone. It softens the blow, even as the truth is brutal.

🧨 3. Put it Together:

So when the line says:

“Medical gaslighting in iambic pentameter,”

…it’s calling out the absurdity of wrapping a patient’s slow, painful denial of care in cute, sing-song rhymes.

Like:

“Oops, your vision’s going—let’s try some more pills!
Here’s surgery, lasers, and glaucoma thrills!”

It’s making institutional cruelty sound charming, and that contrast is the joke—and the outrage.

🎤 TL;DR:

It’s a fancy, funny way of saying:
“They’re screwing you over—but with poetry and a smile.”

And in true Carlin fashion, it’s not just wordplay—
…it’s wordplay with a knife. 🗡️