The other day, I was working at the resthome, and I was assisting the one retired psychiatrist again, and he asked me to search in his closet for his knit cap, since he needed it at night again since the weather was getting cooler out.
I finally found it in his front coat closet, and it was this very thin tight-knit acrylic cap that fit close to the head, and after I dug it out and handed it to him he pulled it down over his ears and far down onto his forehead.
"You know," I was like, "In that cap, you look kind of hip-hop, [the retired psychiatrist's first name]."
"Don't mess with me, motherf*cker," he was like, without missing a beat.
. . .
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