I'm reminded again why I hate doctors. Actually, I don't hate doctors as much as I hate they way they think they can get away with treating their patients like crap, and we're supposed to buy the line that "an emergency came up."

Now I hate them because they're liars. If they lie about emergencies, wouldn't they possibly lie about my medical condition in order to go "deeper" with their diagnosis?

I'm was recently in to see a skin specialist recently. Their office is just around the corner from my home so I figured before I made a trip over I'd phone to see if they were running on time. It was Friday of Easter week so I figured the call was worthwhile. After all, it was a holiday weekend. "No problem…they're running on time today," said the voice on the other end of the line. "Great!"

So I grabbed a copy of my new book "It’s the Customer, Stupid!" so I could give the good folks at the skin shop a complimentary copy as a nice atta-boy for not only running on time but for offering great customer service over the phone. What was I thinking?

I showed up at the skin shop and the waiting room was half full, which is normal for every doctor's office everywhere. I signed in and did all the usual stuff, which included them grabbing my co-pay and personal data. One day I'm going to learn to pay as I go out, not as I come in.

As the first hour ticked away, I began to lose my patience. Now we were trudging along into the second hour of the wait when a nurse appeared and announced my name, or a reasonable facsimile of my name. "Ann Michaels… Ann Michaels… you're next."

I've been down this road before. My first grade school teacher called the roll the first day of school and mistakenly called me the same name. How do you get Ann Michaels out of Michael Aun?

Not only am I waiting forever to see a skin specialist but now they're butchering my moniker and making me a female in the process. I volunteered to the nurse that the person she was looking for might be me, which brought me some hard looks from the folks in the waiting room. After all, they just heard the name "Ann Michaels." I guess they took me for someone who has some gender issues, though I clearly look like a man… a rather ugly man at that.

I'm just too happy to be getting past the gatekeeper at this point so I swallow my pride and proceed back to the most uninviting examination room with the most uncomfortable chair you can imagine. I think doctors intentionally go out of their way to make you feel miserable even if you're not. I guess they figure if you weren’t sick when you came in, they could hasten the possibility before you leave.

Finally, the doc's Physician Assistant appears. I guess my problem didn't rise to the level of having to see a doctor. I questioned why I had to wait so long to be seen (especially after I had called ten minutes before the appointment to make sure he was running on time). He gave me the standard crappy lie for an answer… "Oh, we had an emergency come up."

"Really?" I asked. "What kind of an emergency?" Maybe someone had their skin peeled back or there was a beauty queen that had a super zit that needed to be removed before the contest begins. "Sir, I can't share personal medical information from our patients with you."

I would have rather they just told me, "Look, we had a chance to work in ten extra patents this afternoon and it will improve our bottom line for the month." That I can buy, but a medical emergency at a skin doctor? Give me a break. I was born at night; not last night. I realize I look and act stupid, but don't have the audacity to tell me a lie. He didn't even sell it to the nurses, whose eyes are rolling when you came up with the "emergency excuse." Even they knew the lie wasn't working.

So I gave him the book anyway and begged him to read it because it's this kind of crap that makes its way into my columns and books on customer service. Customer service shouldn't be an oxymoron.