Part Deux: The Derm

Lets just preface this by saying I will be spending some time on the phone tomorrow in hopes that I can get in to see someone else reasonably soon.
Okay.
So, Doc Too Long Taker over at Broadway medical clinic gives me a referral to a dermatologist.
Since I must be some kind of moron, I called to make an appointment. The woman who answered the phone tried to bully me into taking whatever appointment she wanted to give me. At long last, we were able to agree on a time--which was today at 8:15 AM. I so wish I would have forgotten about it. Alas, the itching.
I show up at the office right on time, which is my habit.
An unattractive, unkempt, mad looking woman in scrubs glares at me and gives me a clipboard with tons of paperwork to fill out.
There are signs all over the place indicating that co-payments are due and If You Owe Us Money You Had Better Cough It Up and etc.
I shivered.
After a time, which I had spent catching up on my People Magazine, the crazy pissed off woman called my name and led me into the bowels of the office to a treatment room, where I am instructed to sit down and the doctor will be with me later. After she left, I took stock of the place. Glaring fluorescent lights. The metal Doctor Furniture is circa 1962, is beige, and is worse for the wear. Drawers are labeled with hand written paper scraps. They are taped with scotch tape to the drawers. There is no art in the room. There is, however, a box of tissues.
I wait.
Hours pass.
The doctor finally makes his way to where I am. He is approximately 247 years old, and has a the purple nose of a man who knows his liquor. He does introduce himself to me and demands to know why I am there. I explain again about the mole. "Isn't that weird?" He asks me. "Isn't that weird that you would have this mole all these years and all the sudden it starts bothering you?"
No shit, I say, and then I punch him in the back of the head.
At this point I just want to get the hell out of there.
"I think," I tell him, "that it should come off."
After a brief inspection of the offending lesion, he agrees. But he can't do it today, because TWO of his GALS are out sick. This is a 20 minute procedure. If even.
I started to get mad. I felt powerless and also as if I had been thrown into David Lynch's Antique Dermatology Clinic.
Towards the end of my visit, which has now taken an hour and 15 minutes, he asked me what I do for a living. I told him I am an acupuncturist.
To this, he said:
"Isn't that a job for Asians?"

I need to find another dermatologist, and fast.