The doctor looked over the man sitting on the examination table. She looked at his wife, who had accompanied him. It was a strange match - some blonde model and a gross, blob of a man. A blue blob.
"How exactly did this happen?" the doctor asked, doing her best to keep a neutral tone. The two were quick to blame each other, each pushing into the story before the other had gotten even a sentence out. The doctor was patient though, and the story emerged gradually.
Their friends Jane and Tony had created some cure-all or something that, when mixed with diet soda, turned the folks that tried it blue. Apparently the thing worked well enough, but you had to pay attention to the directions. It became clearer and clearer that the bombastic man in front of the doctor did not count "follows directions" among his skills any more than a giraffe might list "limbo champion".
Finally, after a vast explanation that seemed to stretch from the Pilgrims landing at Plymouth Rock to the current day, the doctor made her diagnosis: drink only water and wait it out.
"Are you some sort of comedian!?" the man exploded. "I have a huge real estate commission I need to secure on Saturday. There's no way I'm going to wait it out."
"It's the only way to get you back to a normal skin tone," the doctor insisted. This began a whole series of insults and threats, none of which the doctor took seriously. Anyone listening to the man could see he was full of hot air.
"I do have another idea, but you won't like it," she tried again. She had his attention for a moment and explained there was a tonic that would turn him oompah-loompah orange, probably permanently.
"Like a spray tan?" he asked.
"Like a spray tan, Mr. Trump."