The Old "Two Finger Shuffle"

Dr. Schiffinger, the albino proctologist with an increasingly-vigorous hand tremor, had hid his tourettes' syndrome for years, but now as he entered the twilight of his career, it was becoming more and more difficult to conceal the symptoms and pass them off as mere eccentricity. There was that time he had been in the middle of administering a digital exam to the congressman's wife. Just as he intended to ask the nurse for more lubricant, he instead cried out “Oaschloch! Oaschloch!” and began pumping his fist quite violently in a most untoward manner. The nurse blanched, shook her head and asked the poor Dr. Schiffinger for clarification. The good doctor shook his own head, came to his senses and mumbled something about horticulture and reached for the lubricant himself. The congressman's wife was never quite the same.

Proctology is nothing to sneeze at – let us be honest about that, shall we? It is the most serious of medical disciplines and the highly-esteemed Dr. Schiffinger knew it. Otto Wilhelm Schiffinger III, M.D., had studied proctology at Vienna's famed Heinprodder Proctological Institute and had immigrated to Putnam County during the war. There being no call for proctologists at the time, the good doctor made his way in the world by serving as a bismarck-filler at the local doughnut emporium. In time, Dr. Schiffinger returned to his craft, and Putnam County was given the services of the finest Viennese proctologist ever to lift a finger, as it were.

The whole of Dr. Schiffinger's world came crashing to the ground one fine spring day, however. It was the day Colonel Murphee, the planter, came in for his semi-annual high colonic. Colonel Murphee, resplendent in his white suit and black string tie, faced each high colonic with great poise and dignity. Each spring and each autumn the Colonel would return to the Heinprodder graduate and keep a stiff upper lip while Dr. Schiffinger plied his craft, but this one fateful day was different than those in seasons past.

Colonel Murphee had been prepped by Dr. Schiffinger's nurse, Miss Penelope, and was waiting patiently in “the position” when Dr. Schiffinger entered the procedure room after having spent a good number of minutes chopping pieces of ice for use in his after-hours cocktail. A full quart of ice chips he had prepared in his office, and the prospect of a frosty libation weighed heavily on his mind - even more heavily than the prospect of the day's last high colonic. Contrary to his usual practice, he still carried his pearl-handled ice pick – a gift from the Countess de Mont-Palatine for “services rendered.” This treasured possession he still twirled absentmindedly as he prepared for the procedure.

The remaining events of that afternoon are the stuff of legend. With the beginning of the flow of water and the sound of a cool, cool trickle, the good doctor felt strangely led out of his body. The Colonel inquired as to the prospects for a dry planting season, and something was triggered deep in the albino proctologist's mind.

“Oaschloch! Oaschloch!”