The eyes have it — and whatever it is needs fixing

My wife and I passed an optometrist’s office yesterday, and she used the opportunity to suggest I might need to consider updating my prescription — which I’ve had roughly since Benjamin Franklin invented bifocals while trying to read what he wrote in Poor Richard’s Almanack during a thunderstorm.

“We need to go by there and get you some new glasses and contacts,” she suggested.

“I can’t see that happening,” I argued.

“You can’t see anything — that’s why you need to go to the eye doctor!”

My wife likes to send me to doctors, but the last time she sent me to a doctor, they put me in a hospital, Roto-Rootered an artery in my heart and gave me a bill that looked like the budget for a small Central American nation. Dying would have been more economical, and my insurance company probably agrees as they have me on the Bronze Please Die Already Plan for a mere $1,184 a month.

I know, though, that I’m going to have to give in on this eye doctor thing eventually. One, I get really tired of her whining about my driving with comments like, “Look out for that tree! And watch out for that lady crossing the street!”

“Well, which is it?! I’m not a multi-tasker! Pick one!”

But, mainly, I’m going to spend a week at the beach next month, and I will need to wear sunglasses. That means I need new contacts under those sunglasses. I’ve stretched out my last box of contacts for more than two years, and my plan to save money by making my own contacts with a box of plastic wrap and scissors proved more complicated than I thought.

It’s not just that I don’t want to spend the money at yet another doctor. I hate having my eyes dilated, and I dread that glaucoma test where they blow a puff of air into your eyes to test whether your buttocks are powerful enough to thrust you into the ceiling. And then they have the nerve to charge you for damaged ceiling tiles.

Next, they want you to read that eye chart, starting with the top line. Spoiler alert: It’s a capital E. It’s always E. C’mon optometry folks, show some originality! That’s why I’ve patented a new eye chart that begins with Q to help catch folks trying to cheat their way through the test.

I don’t know if the subsequent lines of letters are the same on every chart, but I do know the last couple of lines are almost microscopic. When I get to those tiny lines at the bottom, I just start making up letters until they stop me.

“Mr. Johnson, you can stop reading now.”

“No, wait, I can make out the last line! S-A-M-S-U-N-G.”

“That’s the microwave under the chart.”

I will be going to the eye doctor, soon, though. Unfortunately, eye care is not included in my $1,184-a-month Bronze Please Die Already Plan, so I’ve got to be careful what I select. My wife, meanwhile, has suggested that I get a regular pair of glasses and prescription sunglasses.

That ain’t happening. I’m not paying for all that. However, I’ve got an idea how to meet her halfway — monocles. I could get one monocle for regular vision and one monocle to shade the sun.

Lots of famous folks have worn monocles, including The Penguin and Col. Mustard. I think it’s time to bring it back. Nothing screams sophistication like a man who can rock a monocle. And if I can rock a monocle while wearing flip-flops, just imagine what that might scream.

I said to imagine it, not say it out loud.

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