Three Men in a Boat (To Say Nothing of the Dog)

Why did the doctor prescribe the author the medicines??

from chapter 1

Asked by
Last updated by Cathrine Z #1113436
Answers 4
Add Yours
Best Answer

In a flashback, J. recollects how he once went to the British Museum to research a treatment for his hay fever, and after reading about diseases, convinced himself that he was suffering from every illness known to man except for housemaid’s knee. J.’s doctor, clearly recognizing the man's paranoia, prescribed him beefsteak, beer, walking, and good sleep habits, and urged him not to “stuff up your head with things you don’t understand” (10).


i asked why did he prescribe not what ???

The doctor didn't prescribe any medicines.... he prescribed a good dinner, some excercise, and a good night's sleep. He also told J. to quit reading things he didn't understand.

Like most evenings at work, this one was boring. Not just boring in the “I have nothing to do” way, but boring in the “why am I wasting my life in this dump?” kind of way. I think most people feel this way once in a while at their place of employment. My employer gets a bad rap from a lot of people, but to be totally honest, I really like my job. I work at for a certain big-box-retailer, in a smallish city in Minnesota. I won’t name any company names here, because like I said before, I like my job . The one name that I can tell you is mine. My name is Robert. It seems easy enough. It contains six letters, and those letters are arranged in two syllables; Ro-bert. But no, customers always seem to want to call me Bob, which I hate. Bob is not a name, it is a verb that is defined as: “a short jerky motion,” or “to bounce up and down.” Bob is the motion a woman uses when she is giving head. It is not my fucking name. The only worse scenario is when a customer calls me Rob. Rob is also a verb, and when they address me as such, I want to “Rob” them of their consciousness. Other than my name, I am an easy going guy. I am a shade over six feet tall, with brown hair, and eyes. I’m not really fat, but then again, I’m not really thin either. I’m not some muscle-bound ox of a man; but then again, I’m not exactly a scrawny fellow. Almost, but not quite, has been the story of my life. I have only one real thing going for me: I know how to talk to women. It doesn’t sound like much when compared with other super powers. I mean, it’s not as cool as being bulletproof, like Superman. It also really doesn’t compare to being able to do magic like Harry Potter. But those guys are pure fiction. Me, I’m the real deal. Before you get the idea that I’m some kind of big time player who fucks a lot of women, let me tell you; I don’t. In fact, there has been only one woman in my bed for the past five and a half years. Yep, that’s right, I’m married. I’ve been married for almost five years now. I bet you are thinking to yourself, “big fucking deal.” You might be asking yourself, “What good does it do a married man to have a real talent for talking to women?” That is an excellent question, for which I have an excellent answer: it keeps me entertained. It can take the most boring day at work, and turn it into an adventure. A female customer comes to me looking for a widget, and within a few minutes of conversation, I not only sell her a couple more widgets than she was looking for, but I get her whole life story, and usually her phone number too. The conversations, I cherish. The phone numbers, I diligently throw away, always uncalled. After all, I wouldn’t want my wife to get upset after finding some girl’s number in my wallet. It is just a little innocent flirting . Like I said at the beginning, I was bored. All my aisles were straightened, all of my returned merchandise had been put away, and all of the stocking that the day shift was required to do was done. That left one thing to do: clean. Cleaning is the bane of my existence. Whenever work seems like it can get no more tedious, a manager will come by and tell you to get out the paper towel, and the glass cleaner. My section has about a dozen huge display cabinets, which are always in need of a good polish, thanks to the sticky fingers of grubby little children. Just as I began to dread the prospect of becoming Mr. Clean, the department manager from the next section over cruised by, looking like he wanted somebody to tell off. This was his second time by in less than fifteen minutes, so I knew that this self-important prick was on a mission. I quickly looked for a customer that I could assist, but I had no luck. The only customer in sight was being helped by my section partner, Bailey. Damn! “When is the last time that you checked for returns, Robert?” The smug bastard asks. At least the bastard didn’t call me Bob. “I finished them about ten minutes ago, Mitch.” He looked me over closely, like a cop who was trying to tell if I had been drinking, or not. Unfortunately, I hadn’t been drinking. Otherwise, this day probably would have been much more awesome. “Maybe you should clean the display cases.” He paused to see if I would protest. I didn’t, because I had known from the minute I saw him that I would be buffing some glass in the near future. “It’s not good for the other managers to see you just standing around like that.” What he meant was, “It’s doesn’t make me look good for my boss to see you not sweating, and busting your ass for your measly pay.” “Sure, Mitch.” I gave him my most winning smile. This smile had got a woman’s panties thrown at me twice, when I was in college. Yes, I went to college. Why am I working here? Well, that’s a long story. But Mitch was unmoved by what my wife calls my “Million Watt Beam.” I was not totally disappointed, because if Mitch did happen to wear panties, I did not want him to throw them at me. In fact, if he did, I would probably have to give him an old fashioned ass whooping. He turned, and walked away, probably thinking of his next intended victim, or more probably of the kittens or puppies that he tortures in his free time. Watching him walk, I wondered for the millionth time, what he could possibly be smuggling up his ass to make him walk that way? With any luck, I will never find out. I went behind the checkout counter, and got the gigantic, industrial-sized roll of paper towel and a spray bottle of window cleaner. I walked over to the iPod display, and sprayed a generous amount of the blue liquid across the clear surface. Yes, I forgot to tell you before, I am probably the asshole who sold you that television that you watch fourteen hours a day. I finished the top case, bundled up my used towels, and crouched down to spray the lower half of the case. I put the spray bottle down, and began to unroll some more paper when I caught a glimpse of motion out of the corner of my eye. I hate to admit it, but my very first thought was of Mitch throwing his lacey undergarments at me while I was otherwise occupied. Thankfully, this was not the case, and although it was a pair of panties that had caught my eye, they definitely did not belong to Mitch “the Bitch.” They were very small, and lacey, and red, and hanging from a hanger that was held by the woman standing next to me. The term woman was probably stretching it a little. Girl, would probably be more accurate, or at least, young lady. She was a pretty little thing. She stood maybe 5’1”, and if she weighed over a hundred pounds, I would gladly eat that lacey red thong. After a full twenty seconds of looking, I decided that I would have no problem eating that miniscule article of clothing, provided that she was wearing it at the time. She was absolutely stunning. Her long blonde hair was pulled back into a pony tail. I try not to actively fantasize about other women, but I couldn’t help but wonder what that hair would look like flowing free… down her back… her naked back… and maybe a little damp with sweat from our lovemaking. I tried to pull myself together, and stop my mind from wandering. Unfortunately, that is when she pivoted about a quarter turn, and I caught sight of her best asset. No pun intended. I have always been a butt man, but I had never seen one in person to match hers. It was unnaturally large, perfectly heart-shaped, and it was stuffed into the smallest possible pair of lime green soccer shorts. The color of the shorts only highlighted the thin strip of cloth, that was obviously from a thong, exactly like the one she held in her hands, except for the color. It was peeking out of the top of her ridiculously small shorts, beneath her too small tank top, that left a full three inches of her flat belly bare