“You’ve got a drug problem and a history of drug and alcohol abuse. You really need to tone down your intake.”

That was the doctor’s professional assessment and advice after my latest visit. Basically, I paid $70 to be called a drug addict by a real peckerwood of a physician.

At my last visit, he told me that I should’ve gone to school for engineering. “Journalism?” he said, with snobbish disgust. “You majored in journalism? There’s no money or future in journalism. Engineering. That’s where the money is. You can get on with an oil company designing drilling tools. Don’t you want to have money to support a family one day? Journalism?”

He said all of this while his finger was jammed up my ass during a prostate exam. I hated this little, butt-probing, snide prick. After the whole “prostate visit,” I told myself that I would never go back to this doctor. Well, I was wrong…

It was the Sunday before Mardi Gras, and I was partying with some friends in a suite at the Royal Sonesta in downtown New Orleans. My buddy Phat Tony had ordered some absinthe from Europe a few months prior and was excited to try the stuff out. So we took a break from slinging beads off the balcony to drunk women flashing their titties and got down to business.

Phat Tony poured some absinthe in a rocks glass, placed the absinthe spoon and a sugar cube over the glass, and began to pour cold water over the sugar, melting it into the absinthe below. He handed me the glass and down went the cloudy, green liquid.

Two rocks glasses later, I was coloring the toilet water green with my vomit. I really didn’t see what the big deal was. I didn’t feel like I was floating like a green fairy. I just felt like I had drunk some cheap Everclear and now my throat was on fire.

After puking my guts up for 12 hours, I thought I was finally getting over the deadly absinthe hangover, but it was only the beginning. My throat and esophagus were severely burned. The agony was too much. I had to go back to the butt-probing, prick doctor. He was the only one who would see me on Mardi Gras Day.

In the exam room, I told the nurse the “Absinthe Story.” She had never heard of the stuff and seemed to look down her nose at me after she listened to my story. I don’t know if it was my story that made her feel like she was better than me, or if it was the fact that I was talking like a 50-year-old, crack-smoking, alcohol-swigging broad that was dying from lung cancer because my throat was hurt so badly.

“The doctor will be here in just a minute,” she said as she exited the room. The walls in that hospital are pretty thin. I could hear the nurse telling the desk clerk my story and giggling. Then, I could hear her and the doctor making jokes about my situation right outside the door. The nerve of that unprofessional bitch, spreading my business all through the office.

It would have been different if my story were funny, like if I had accidentally Super Glued my hand to my dick. But my story wasn’t that funny …  I drank some wormwood alcohol and threw it up. Now my throat burns. That’s it.

Then the doctor came in: “Well, well, well, Mr. Valentine. I see you’re still partying, huh?” Then this motherf–ker had the nerve to tell me, “Well, if you’re looking to score some pain pills, you came to the wrong place. You’ve got a drug problem …”

After he examined my throat, he prescribed for me some sore throat medication and sent me on my way.

Later that night, I decided to get even. I usually don’t act out passive-aggressively, but I had to make an exception this time. I found out where he lived, went to his house, strapped on some latex gloves, and proceeded to smear dog feces on the handle of his front door and underneath the handles of his car doors.

Have a great day, turd face.