I went to the doctor in search of a cure for my chronic inability to face facts.
“Doctor, doctor,” I said, “I have no idea why I keep persisting. I need to know – what are my chances?”
She looked at me with warmth and concern. “Well, I’m afraid they’re minimal I’d say. At best.”
“But doctor, is there really nothing I can do?”
“Well, because it’s you, I’m going to suggest something non-traditional. How about a verbal remedy?”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Try using the word shenanigans. Or malarkey. Those ones always help.”
“Excellent,” I said, feeling better already. “What about skedaddle?”
“Yes, that might work,” she said. “Although the research is inconclusive.”
“Doctor,” I told her, “you are a complete nincompoop!”
“Er, thanks. But actually, just for the record, I dispense the verbal remedies thank you very much. We don’t need any of that alternative malarkey around here.”