Last of the Dinosaurs

This is an extremely juvenile story I wrote when I was 13. It doesn't hold up well but it IS kinda funny in a moronic, Farrelly Brothers fashion. Less than a 3 min read.

One upon a time in London, let’s say 1982, there lived a meek and mildly moronic man named…well…let’s call him John. John Smith.

One day John wasn't feeling well. In fact, he felt terrible. Almost at death’s door. The worst he’d ever felt in his thirty-eight years om Earth. So he went to a doctor who ran some tests and checked John’s blood pressure. Then he checked John’s prostate, which was an unpleasant experience but John did feel some measure of relief afterwards when he learned that his prostate was fine. Later on he would wonder if the relief he felt was from hearing the good news about his prostate or simple relief at no longer having a man’s finger in his ass.

“You’re a healthy man,” the doctor said. John thought he detected scorn in the doctor’s pronouncement. Like he was scolding John. Like John was wasting the doctor’s time.

“I don’t feel healthy, doc. I haven’t been to a doctor in eighteen years. I wouldn’t have if I felt fine. I wouldn’t have come here if I felt healthy.

“Fine,” the doctor said. “We’ll do an MRI.”

When the doctor came back into the room, he was a changed man. No longer the haughty, cocksure prick he’d been an hour ago. The pale perplexed look on his face told John that he he was about to hear some very unpleasant information. “Mr. Smith,” the doctor began, “your lungs appear to be in your butt.”

John stared at the doctor and the doctor stared back. John was waiting for a punchline. Waiting for clarification. Waiting for what he just heard to make sense. But the doctor just stared back. “Uh…excuse me?” John stammered.

“Not only are your lungs in your ass,” the doctor continued, reading from his clipboard. “Your liver is in your shoulder. Your guts are in your thighs. And your heart is in your penis. Furthermore, your organs do not look or behave like thirty eight year-old organs. Your organs almost seem…ancient. They’re more like the innards of a two hundred year old man. This goes far beyond my qualifications as a family doctor.”

“You think I should see a specialist?”

“No. I think you need to see a palaeontologist.”

“A palaeontologist?” John cried, alarmed.

“Yes, a palaeontologist.”

The palaeontologist arrived twenty minutes later. His eagerness to examine John made John nervous. Nobody wants to fascinate doctors. If a doctor finds you interesting, it means you are a medical anomaly.

Three hours later, after a battery of tests, the palaeontologist sat John down and explained his diagnosis.

“Sir, you appear to be a vaginosaur.”

“A vagina sore?” John said.

“No. Not a sore vagina. A vaginasaur. The vaginasaur was a dinosaur that went extinct 65 million years ago. Or so we thought. The great lizard was named for the German scientist who discovered it, Franz Vagina. Like you, the vaginasaur had lungs in its butt and a penis in its heart. I therefore believe that you are a 65 million-year-old vaginasaur.”

“Is that why my penis looks so weird?” John asked.

The palaeontologist solemnly nodded. Then he assiduously and rather anally gathered up his medical supplies and charts and left. He’d made his discovery and now he had papers to write and publish in prestigious medical journals. The palaeontologist knew exactly where he was going and exactly how he’d get there. He wasn’t being rude, per se. John simply didn’t have anything for him anymore. Besides, palaeontologists are not qualified to give advice on how to live among humans as a dinosaur. John had unwittingly been doing just that his whole life anyway.

He left the doctor’s office in a haze. He never told a single living soul what he’d learned about himself that day in 1982. For the rest of his days, he lived a solitary existence. A 65-million year old dinosaur roaming the streets of twentieth century London.

The last and loneliest dinosaur in the world.

Artist rendering of a vaginasaur skeleton.