Lunatics by Dave Barry and Alan Zweibel

at all tunnels and bridges.
    What to do? What to do? I became paranoid of every squad car I saw. And then of all cars in general, as I thought they might be undercover cops. I was getting more and more nervous. I needed a Plan D (I think) but couldn’t think of anything. I was sweating. I needed help. But from where? I’m not a religious man, but divine intervention would’ve been nice.
    And then I heard it. The voice of God? Not exactly. It was more like the grinding of gears on a tractor-trailer when it’s slowing to a halt. It was the sound of Denise Rodecker stirring back into consciousness.
    I once read somewhere (
Reader’s Digest
, I think) that great men overcome dire situations by making the cards they were dealt work for them. Well, on the seat next to me was a huge card. Denise was sick and in need of a doctor. Badly. If one of the pets at The Wine Shop was in her condition, I would have it put down. So I got excited by the thought that Denise Rodecker could be my ticket out of this mess. All I had to do is get her the medical attention she so obviously needed and then, once she was healthy, she could tell the cops what had actually happened.
    â€œEverything’s going to be okay, Denise,” I told her. “I’m going to take you over to Lenox Hill Hospital and they’re going to make you feel better.”
    And then I gave her a reassuring smile.
    And then she said, “I love you.”
    And then I said, “Do you know if Lenox Hill is on Third Avenue or Lexington?”
    By the time we got to the emergency room at Lenox Hill (it’s on Lexington, by the way), Denise Rodecker said she loved me four times. I didn’t take it seriously, figuring that these were merely the incoherent murmurings of an obese insulin-depleted nymphomaniac who just happened to be looking in my direction as I drove at my new preferred speed of thirty-four mph so as not to call attention to the car.
    And I also didn’t take it seriously when she insisted I hold her hand as the bald male nurse with a mole on the top of his head wheeled her into the treatment room. I obliged, figuring it was innocuous. A mere comforting gesture to a nervous patient. Done all the time. Like writing “love” at the end of a letter to someone you couldn’t care less about.
    â€œShe your wife?” asked the bald male nurse with a mole on the top of his head.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œGirlfriend?”
    â€œShe’s just a neighbor,” I told him.
    â€œInteresting.”
    â€œWhy do you say that?”
    â€œBecause you two seem rather close for just being neighbors,” he said.
    â€œWhy? Because I’m holding her hand?”
    â€œNo, because she’s flashing her left breast at you with her other hand,” he said.
    â€œExcuse me?” I asked, before looking down and seeing that Denise had opened her hospital gown and was now exposing what I could only presume was a breast given its location on her massive chest—although any positive ID that a nipple would provide wasn’t visible as it was hanging over the other side of the gurney. Still, the bald male nurse with a mole on the top of his head saw my face redden with horror, which he, unfortunately, mistook for embarrassment.
    â€œSee what I’m saying?” he asked with a sneer that was just begging to be mauled by a Doberman from The Wine Shop. “She’s hot for you.”
    â€œOh, that’s just the diabetes talking,” I told him.
    â€œDiabetes doesn’t talk,” he insisted, his sneer getting more sneerish. “High fevers talk. Alzheimer’s talks. Certain infectious diseases don’t shut up for a second. But diabetes? No. Diabetes comes stag and pretty much sucks the air out of the party.”
    â€œOkay, then it’s the insulin that’s talking!” I shot back. “I’m telling you, she has no idea what she’s saying.”
    â€œInsulin