I had an itch, a bitch of an itch, so I went to the doctor of Physickal Juices and paid my three bucks and sat in the waiting room with endless heaps of ancient magazines and wheezing showgirls and runny, dripping pets and noxious fumes, and it was a mighty long wait as you might imagine. And when the nurse with the owl eyes called my name, which I had never given her, the doctor was in. He wrote me up and ran me down, he checked me in and out, and he leaned back in his recliner and said, as I crinkled nervously on the white paper, "Boy, looks like you've got a case of head mice."

And what was the treatment, I asked, and he said "Water them frequently, don't give them no lip." So I skulked out of there and walked down the avenue, a pitiful sight with my head in my hands. And I felt a creeping of tiny feet, crawling ever so daintily, little mice feet emerging onto my hands. And I screamed, and they screamed, and they scurried back in, and I went back to the doctor for some heavy sedation.

Some twenty pills later, I'm lying half-comatose, and the head mice come scampering into the kitchen to make themselves sandwiches. When will it end? They've gotten me fired, 'cause noone likes head mice, and I just don't know what to do except what the doctor told me.