Judging a book by its tattoos

Tattoo Man basted me like a Christmas turkey, peppered me with garnished praise and slow-baked his way through my seasoned outer crust. Bugger. 

Usually, when it comes to slamming the script pad shut, I’m all Fort Knox. Reception deliberately sends all hopeful newcomers down dead-end street to my brick wall. Five minutes later they exit, loudly proclaiming to the waiting room that my clinical decisions are not made by my frontal cortex, but rather by an unlikely combination of both my genitalia and distal GI tract.

Funnily enough, those occasions are easy

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