Today I continued along the chain of medical referrals. I mentioned that I had to visit my primary physician a while back. Well today was the referral to the urologist. Or at least, his assistant.
I’d been to the same urologist back in 2000 for a consultation. At that visit, he graphically informed me of the things he wanted to do to my more treasured body parts. I politely declined and decided to just live with my ailment. Whoops, a few steps back. The reason for all this is because sometimes I have difficulty urinating. It has to do with scar tissue and it’s something that I’ve had all my life, having two surgeries in my teens for the same problem. My first surgery was when I was 13. I shared a hospital room with another kid about my age. I was in 8th grade, he was in 7th. I just *knew* there was something special about him, and sure enough, we ended up hooking up one night about 10 years later. “Where did you meet? In the hospital, he was having his tonsils out and I was getting a roto-rooter up my wa-wa.” Sexy.
Back to present day. So I went to the urologist’s satellite office, with a waiting room about the size of a broom closet. There’s a friendly enough receptionist who likes to bark out things to patients. “Here’s your viagara”. “Don’t forget to shoot into the cup.” “Save enough pee for your next visit so we don’t have to squeeze it out of you.”
For some reason, walking in I expected the waiting room to smell like pee. I don’t know why, but I thought it would add to the ambiance. There were older people all about, save for one four or five year old with his mother. Every once in a while, an older gentleman would come out. One wild looking gentleman came bursting through the door with a huge grin and a bunch of pill samples.
Viagara. Mrs. Wild is going to have an interesting evening.
So anyways, my turn came up and they beckoned me in. I had to do the usual deal – weight, height, blood pressure. Everything appeared to be normal. I sat in the examining room for a bit. There were pictures of dissected body parts all over the walls. It was kind of interesting, as I had never really paid attention during high school biology. Come to think of it, I don’t remember much of biology at all. The only thing I remember was the teacher, Mr. Oliver, asking me “Mr. Wing, do you know what a homosexual is?” Wasn’t he funny. The rest of the class went “oooh.” I should have had a snappy comeback like “Homosexual. Homosexual. Like your boyfriend?” but of course I didn’t.
Anyways, the nurse practicioner comes in and asks me a bunch of questions. I fill her in with my history and everything. She seems pleasant enough. But then she wants to do a prostate test.
Why does every doctor want to check my prostate? Is my ass that cute that they go “Ooooh, look at that tight ass, let me touch!”?
Long story short, my prostate is in good shape. She informs me that I can look forward to that round of fun every year for the next 10 to 15 years, because after all, I’m at the fun male age.
So now I have to do a couple of lab tests (I’ll spare you the details, use your imagination) and then go in for another exam on February where I get to go the bathroom in a computerized toilet.
I’m so excited about the whole thing I could pee my pants.