Doctors are Sadists

My left foot has been troubling me for a couple of years now. Last Friday I was finally able to see a foot specialist. I'm trying to make up my mind if he's some kind of sick, twisted fiend.

The visit began with a simple visual examination of the foot. Then he began pressing it, once here, once there, at different points on and around the ankle. "Does this hurt? How about here? Here?" he would ask as he prodded. Each time it hurt, but not terribly.

"Does this hurt?" he eventually asked, bending my foot sharply towards my shin bone. 

That hurt. Man, did it hurt. But did that stop him? Nope. He pulled the foot back away from my leg, a hundred eighty degrees from the first way he bent it. "How about this?" he asked clinically.

Can't you tell? I'm tapping out like a professional wrestler. "Yes," I replied instead through clenched teeth.

"This?" he truncated his question as he wrenched the foot sideways. "Yes," I affirmed in a whimper.

I'm not sure he had to do all that. I think that because he seemed to be enjoying himself far too much. Did you have a fight before you left the house this morning, doc?