I couldn't resist blogging this.
I was paging through the New Yorker on an exercise bike at the gym yesterday and came across the following cartoon that brought a smile to my face:
A man has propped open the hood of his car, which is probably broken down on the side of the road, and is staring into the engine space. Staring back at him is a needle-nosed, spiky-haired imp. The tiny imp is saying, "I'm your problem."
Wow. Wouldn't that be nice if figuring out what was wrong was that simple?
You go to the doctor, complaining of knee pain. He taps your knee with a rubber hammer, and a little spiky-haired imp sticks his head out the side, his mouth full of your chewed-up cartilage, and says, "I'm your problem." The doctor wrestles the imp out of the joint, and into a pocket of his lab coat, then smothers him, and you walk out of the clinic with pain-free knees.
Well, we can always dream. :)