Patch Adams:
The Man, The Film, The Motherfucking Hemorrhaging Cuntpunch Of American Medicine.

Bill Dungsroman 12/19/2002 

I fucking hate Patch Adams. If I had to void my bowels orally and submit to urethral swabs with barbed wire every day, Iíd do it if it meant that Patch Adams could somehow be retroactively wiped from existence. Patch Adams has only two priorities in his life: to convince people of how great he is and convince people of how useless the entire practice of medicine is. The latter claim is obviously stupid, baseless, and only justifiable in certain specific, isolated incidents. So what does that tell you about the former claim, that of how great Adams is supposed to be?

Adams still works the talk show and guest speaker circuit. Medical schools think having Adams speak to their students will "humanize" them with his bogus message of caring and healing through laughter. Heíll clomp around in his big shoes and rubber nose, tell some really bad jokes that the tired, bored students will laugh at politely, and cash his check. Fucker. And itís all thanks to that fucking film they made of him. Without it, nobody would have heard of Adams, and we would all be better for it. Like the death of Christ, knowing about Adams Ė or worse yet, caring about him, his life or his so-called agenda Ė is a sin most of us unfortunately share, and itís nearly as grievous. Camps should be arranged in major metropolitan areas with CIA brainwashing teams to hypnotize us Ė with beatings, if necessary Ė into forgetting Adams ever existed. Except me, I want to be able to remember, and then laugh at what a worthless nobody Adams would finally rightfully become. And every copy ever made of his fucking film should be burned in a mass bonfire using his stupid mustache as a wick, so I could piss on it to put it out when it has become nothing more than a smoldering melted pile of plastic. And then it could be shaped into a giant anvil, I and could drop it on Adamsí head while he holds up a little umbrella and a sign that says "Yikes!" in a large-scale poor attempt at a childish joke that rivals Adamsí own misguided sense of humor. Iím all about irony, such as the irony of a doctor using his medical training as a means to reject that training in order to make himself famous by appearing to help people, instead of really helping them using that same training. And then some clueless Hollywood cunts canonize him in fucking film, of all things, after some dimwit publisher lets him write a fucking book about it, even.

I truly believe this film, as well as Adams himself, was made solely for my benefit, to drive me utterly insane and get me to start killing random people, like a code word for a sleeper agent. I hate this film more than any fucking film made, ever. If someone made a snuff film starring my own mother, Iíd still hate Patch Adams more than that film.

††††††††††† Let me preface this with a few factual tidbits of my life. I went to medical school. I dropped out my third year, because it sucked beyond compare. It was the single most miserable, depressing, soul-crushing experience of my pathetic life. Independent of anything else, medical school sucked horribly, but adding in a cascade of personal nightmares that started with my fiancť leaving me one month before our wedding, my whole life and anything associated with became unbearable. As a result, I turned my back on just about everything that held any meaning in my life, starting with medicine. It made sense to me at the time: I lost one of the two most important things in my life, my fiancť, so I gave up the other, medicine, to make things "even." I also gained 40 pounds and shaved my head bald, so thatís where I was in the area of personal judgment at that time.

Prior to that, though, I was once a happy medical student with a pretty little fiancť, with my whole future in front of me. And during my first happy year of medical school, I went to a seminar where Patch Adams was the keynote speaker. He went on about how we were all too serious, how we all needed to remember how powerful laughter was. He even had statistics to support his retarded claims. Most importantly though, he wasnít funny. At all. Heís like your "wacky" Uncle Larry who always had something "funny" to say during family get-togethers, and he always sat near you because you were a kid and you politely forced a laugh at every stupid fucking thing he said. I caught myself right before I asked him, in front of most of my faculty and my class, "So, your personal philosophy is to make terminally ill patients beg for an early and quick death after being exposed to your Godawful attempts at humor long enough?" Many of us left, and we were soundly rebuffed by some of the attending faculty later. My point that I wouldnít have gotten very far in life if I had tried to laugh out my ruptured appendix when I was eleven instead of having surgery wasnít appreciated. But at that point in my life, I was nailing Aís and Bís on my exams and nailing my pretty little redheaded fiancť, so who gives a flip about some ugly fruit in clown makeup telling me to lighten up? Even in my moment of supreme happiness, though, I still wanted to kill that fucking faggot Adams, after suffering through his horribly self-serving film and suffering in his horribly self-serving presence at my school. And after all these years, after all this shit Iíve been through and put myself through, I still want to kill that fucking cunt Patch fucking Adams. Fuck him, and fuck this fucking faggot film that glorifies his pathetic nonexistence as a fucking rodeo clown that woke up in a hospital and refused to leave, that worthless oozing cunt.

Maybe I canít blame the filmmakers for everything that is wrong with this syphilitic chancre of a film, since most of it is drawn from that fucking idiot Adams and his pretentious, self-serving book, Why I Am a Dick or whatever itís called. You canít make diamonds out of dogshit unless youíre Superman, and nobody involved with this film will be mistaken for The Man of Steel. Unless you count Adams, who probably thinks itís funny to wear his underwear outside his pants, the comic mastermind that he is.

First of all, this movie is so full of shit you should get a complimentary laxative every time you watch it. Iíll ignore the Hollywood convention of making everyone better looking for a film adaptation of "real life", I guess, but the real Patch is butt-fucking-ugly and I sincerely doubt that Carin Fischer looked anything like Monica Potter. The real Patch has a ridiculous mustache and looks like Gene Shalit after getting whacked in the face with a cast-iron frying pan. My hero, the suicidal drunken fucking clown who claims doctors are all worthless because their comic material is lacking. The first half-hour of the film is so ludicrous, I thought Oliver Stone was the director, not Tom Shadyac (the director of Ace Ventura. Also, Steve Oedekerk wrote the screenplay. These two idiots teamed up on The Nutty Professor 2. What the fuck were they doing making this film?). So Patch went to Virginia Medical University, got the highest scores with no effort at all, and eventually became disillusioned with the whole thing when he discovered how great it was to make sick people laugh in spite of the static he received from other doctors and his dean for it.

Bull. Fucking. Shit.

Letís start at the beginning. Of the film anyway, not Adamsí life, since 40 years or so of that passed before the film begins. Super medical genius Adams was apparently some wandering idiot who tried to commit suicide and ended up in a mental ward. Fine, Iíll buy that from this fruit; if only heíd been successful. What I donít buy is that while in the mental ward, he bonded with one of the patients (played by Michael Jeter, the way Jeter plays every character heís been since The Fisher King) by helping him shoot imaginary squirrels. And with that revelation, he went to medical school. Get the fuck out of here, Patch. Maybe you really spent a day or two in a mental ward because you made a half-assed attempt at checking out, you pansy, but donít expect me to buy that you bonded with anyone there. I, and many others, have worked in mental wards; thereís no fucking bonding among patients, certainly not in that trite and obviously bogus fashion. Fine, you got into medical school at 40, and thatís no small feat. But what he (and the film) wants us to buy right away is that not only is he one of the top students, heís one of the top students with hardly any effort on his part, since all he wants to do is talk to patients. Let me tell you something: nobody is that fucking smart. Nobody. Medicine isnít some fucking I.Q. test where you barely need to study to get all the answers right, because theyíre all just common sense. Thatís what a fraud like Adams would like you to believe, what clueless retards like Shadyac and Oedekerk probably think is what medicine is actually all about. Bullshit; studying medicine is like studying law or engineering or any other complicated post-graduate profession. Oh but wait, thereís Adams in a courtroom defending himself successfully near the end of the film. See, Adams is so motherfucking awesome, he can practice medicine and law without ever cracking a single textbook. I know Patch hates doctors so insulting them is his stock-in-trade, but I guess he doesnít like lawyers either so he has to insult them too, the ungrateful asshole.

Back to my original point. Adams frequently gets into trouble because the absurdly mean dean of his school (Bob Gunton) wonít let him talk to the patients. Booo! How mean! Or rather, how appropriate, since most medical schools wonít let dumbass medical students anywhere near patients until their third year. The first two years are all bookwork to prepare you for the third and fourth years, when you rotate through the hospital. You donít let a pilot in training jump in the cockpit and try to fly a plane the first day; Adams was trying to do just that in a medical sense, and weíre supposed to feel sorry for him and revile the dean for chastising him? Because Adams is such a motherfucking medical wunderkind that heís past all that silly nonsense form the first two years? Patch, you fucking clueless faggot, the dean isnít yelling at you for simply trying to talk to patients (yeah, doctors should never talk to their patients. Give me a fucking break, like any dean of a medical school would imply that), heís yelling at you for doing it out of turn. Youíre BREAKING THE FUCKING LAW talking to patients like that, Patch. Youíre trespassing, you ignorant jackass. They never make the point later in the film that, in his third year, practically all Patch got to do was talk to patients, while the residents got to do all the cool stuff like operate. Talking to patients and sticking your finger up their asses, thatís third year in a nutshell. But Patch has a persecution complex, and heís an old narrow-minded crank who thinks heís the only one whoís right in any situation.†

The whole film reeks of his pompous attitude. If he doesnít come across as a natural genius at medicine, heís afraid that no one would take anything he has to say about medicine seriously (Heís right, but trying to pawn himself off as a prodigy of medicine doesnít camouflage that). He throws in that heís at the top of his class because if he didnít, most of the audience would wonder why the fuck anyone should listen to his nonsense about communicating with patients. Poor Philip Seymour Hoffmanís character has to scratch his head in bewildered amazement at your entirely fictional ability to ace classes when all you claim to do is briefly study, talk to patients whom you have no business talking to, and try to lay some poor girl about half your age. See folks, Patch not only is completely full of shit, but the shit heís slinging at you is even worse than the truth, unless your idea of a hero is an old, lazy, ignorant lech. But the worst affront he makes at this point is the bald-faced hypocrisy he flaunts in order to try to get you to sympathize with him. As I said, he uses the offhand references to his mysterious medical genius to set himself up as being far wiser to the true ways of medicine, that since he knows it all already, heís already around the corner to the True Way, the Way of Dressing Like a Retard and Cracking Lame Jokes. So in essence, that backsliding fuck is using the very discipline he denounces to validate his own stupid beliefs, so youíll buy them and him. Plus, he really is a doctor in real life, which means he studied like crazy and eventually did whatever the dean or anyone told him, like a good little bitch. Heíd have gotten thrown out if he hadnít, believe me. No oneís dying to get 40-year-olds through medical school. What a cunt.

The movie is full of ersatz emotion, forced upon the audience by sweeping violin scores to hammer the point home. What, you think the guys behind the comic subtleties of Ace Ventura and The Nutty Professor can handle drama? Please. Patchís Gesundheit Center eventually went under, and weíre supposed to care. Why would anyone want to give money to a non-government-funded halfway house? Why would even the government want to? Thatís like giving donations to a guy who built his own dilapidated post office, claiming the U.S. Postal Service is incompetent because dogs donít like the mailcarriers. Meanwhile, he rarely delivers the mail to the right address, but you should support him because he doesnít make you use postage stamps. Adams has to defend his center in that horribly clichť courtroom scene, which is pure fucking fiction. Even so, maybe instead of Adams stubbornly and selfishly defending a place that serves no useful purpose solely because he thought of it, he should let it get shut down out of respect for the girl he loved (who supposedly loved him) who was murdered because of it. Fuck you Patch, fuck you for-fucking-ever for foisting your self-centered, utterly misguided ideals on us, while you stomp on the grave of some poor girl you conned into helping you to serve your own ends. You fucking disgusting subhuman pile of shit. I was chastised for leaving your speech early, I should have been congratulated on my restraint for not charging the podium and beating you to death with one of your own oversized clown shoes, you miserable selfish fuck. And I should have had to fight my own colleagues and professors for the privilege, as well.

Thereís nothing to like about this film, beyond Williamsí occasional ad-libbed moments of humor that someone who wasnít seething and praying for the real Adamsí immediate painful death while watching might find funny. For me, that was just Williams breaking character and being Williams independent of anything else; an old dope like Adams couldnít have come up with anything nearly that funny. This idiot still dresses like a fucking clown, for Godís sake. Who thinks a fucking clown is funny anymore? And that bit about the giant legs he put up for the visiting gynecologists? Pure fake fictional fucking horseshit. Tell me a better one Patch, one I might believe, because you arenít Robin Williams and you arenít even Gallagher, either. Youíre a fucking fraud, and in the sense of this film being your life story it inadvertently gets that part right, because itís as big a fucking fraud as you are. I hope you get colon cancer Patch, like that poor guy in the film who you reduced from a person into a straight man for some of Robin Williamsí (not your) jokes, and letís see if you try to fucking laugh your way into a cure. Iíll be there to laugh with you, at your fucking funeral. Isnít pissing on your grave a fucking scream, you charlatan?

Bill Dungsroman

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