Well, children, what can I tell you? Uncle Moe is getting to a certain age and men of a certain age must go through a certain procedure every certain time of year uncertain of what the result might be. Oh, the horror. Oh, the shame.
It started in my GP's office. He told me it was time. I had to put on the paper gown and lie on the examining table on my side, knees pulled to my chest. (Some make you bend over the table). I could hear the latex smacking against his hairy Russian hand. Did I mention that my doctor is Russian? Not that it matters one way or another, but he has a somewhat blunt manner, regardless of his nationality.
So there I am on my side, knees to chest, all exposed back there, bracing for the worst. "The worst" does not quite describe what happened next. Yes, I do exaggerate. But having a pair of thick lubricated Russian fingers up your private privates (where no man has been and won't be again if I can help it) is less than a picnic on the beach with a couple Victoria's Secret models. Yes, I realize I sound incredibly homophobic, sexist and otherwise
Field and Stream/Guns & Ammo here, but friends, it was humiliating and painful. So you'll excuse me.
When it was all over, I was sure he left something up there. No, he assured me, anything up there was now completely removed. Then I realized it was the lubricant. He easily left a good four or five ounces of the stuff up there. I swear. Gobs ... OK, you may want to bow out now if you're squeamish. Or it may be too late.
Unfortunately, this was not the end of it. My doctor now announces that I have a nodule that he'd like a urologist to look at. So on top of this, I have to fill out more forms, get a referral and show up at a complete stranger's office to have him perform the same procedure. Bad enough I have a doctor I have known for 15 years get all up in it, but now a complete stranger gets to feel his way around the nether of Moe-land. Needless to say, I could barely wait.
The big day arrived. And, friends, as bad as the fist exam was, I am pleased to tell you that the next went unprecedentedly smoothly. The doctor was punctual, polite and speedy. He was in and out before you could knock me over the head with a 2x4 and call me Johnson. (He favored the bend-over-the-table approach, by the way). He did seem to go a lot deeper and linger a bit longer than my GP but so what? Once he was done, he calmly told me I had nothing to worry about. My prostate, like most men's my age, was beginning to enlarge slightly but there were no concerns.
So, people, the equipment is fine, I am a little more humble ... and the moral? Boys, get your junk checked out. Don't wait till there's a problem.
