A Kick in the Ass

Warning! Graphic Content. (What does that mean? As a graphic designer, I always wonder if I have to put that disclaimer on every ad I create.)

I just had a prostate biopsy taken, this the third one in my short time on this planet. Over their lifetime, most men will experience this procedure at least once, so I thought I’d share what happens. While prostate cancer is a scary and prevalent outcome, I reflected that we are so much luckier than women. When Sara had her biopsy, they had to penetrate her breasts. We have this opening that leads directly to the gland. Doesn’t that make you feel better? So, here’s the inside scoop on how it works.

First, as I’m sitting in the exam room in my tighty whities, Nurse Hardasse comes in and greets me with her usual, “Hi Big Guy.” Then she starts to giggle. I hate when she does that. It makes me feel so inadequate. She offers a tranquilizer to make my brain a little fuzzy. I refused, explaining that my brain is like that without the meds. She then tells me to lie on the examining table on my side facing the wall, in a partial fetal position. Once there, she raises the table to a height that almost allows me to touch the ceiling, explaining that the doc likes to work standing upright. She hands me one of those paper wraps that slide off with your first move, and as she leaves the room tells me to put on the sheet and remove my shorts.

I unfold the wrap and lay it over my bare body, and as I go to pull off my shorts, as expected the sheet falls to the floor. And there’s no way I’m jumping off the table to retrieve it. So, lying there with all this anxious energy, I take my shorts and toss them to the chair that is stacked with my other clothes. My exuberant toss from this height causes them to hit the ceiling fan and get hung up on one of the revolving blades.

As Doctor Goldfinger, the male gynecologist, and his team, come into the room, they are greeted by my blushing bare cheeks, et al. Ms. Hardasse looks around and says, “Hey Big Guy did we miss the keg party?” Giggle, giggle. She then introduces me to her assistant, Crisco Galore, who begins to lubricate my butt with axle grease and inserts a high definition studio camera in a place where you never thought it would fit. Since I am facing the wall and the strategically placed TV set mounted on it, I am now looking at the inside of Carlsbad Caverns.

At that point, Dr. Strangeglove wedges a Daisy BB rifle into the orifice and begins firing away. OK, so maybe it was only a cap pistol, but it felt like a BB gun. He shot 21 needles into my highly sensitive, albeit numbed prostate. During this assault, I felt a warm liquid oozing onto my thigh. Looking down I saw a small pool of blood. Becoming alarmed, I feared that one of the needles had gone clear through my boys, causing permanent damage. Fortunately, it turned out to be just some of last night’s red wine that had leaked out. And now I understood why you should never drink alcohol before any medical procedure. And finally, after all this uncomfortable, dignity-deflating activity, I heard the latex gloves snap, and I knew I had survived the ordeal.

Well, today I got the good news that all the tissue samples were clear, except for the gunpowder stains. And at least for the time being, I won’t require a permanent Viagra/Flomax/Depends dependency. And that’s better than a kick in the ass.
But, like you I wonder, with all the negative indicators and no sign of cancer, what is wrong with my prostate? Self-diagnosing my problem, I’m convinced the problem is either virus or bacteria borne. And to prove my theory, I’m sitting here naked waiting for it to sneeze.