Me & the Boys
Part TWO

Part 1

Did I mention that my doctor the internist is female? For those he-man-woman-hater types let me explain briefly why I chose her as my medical advisor: the average female finger is about half the girth of the average male finger. That’s about as brief as one can get. Since I’m approaching my mid-40s there seems to be another orifice that gets inspected on a regular basis. I’m thinking I chose wisely.

Now the more interesting part is that Dr. Stacey Bizzell just happens to be a close friend of ours. We’ve attended dinner parties together and not once has she brought up my most recent rectal exam or how well endowed (shut up in the back row, there) I just might be. Nor has she taken my wife’s advice as to how to check my gonads for possible problems, which involves the same method Joan might use if she were to investigate possible infidelity on my behalf without the baseball bat (“behalf” was probably not a good word to use in this instance).

So I visited Dr. Bizzell yesterday knowing I was in good hands just like Allstate. The good doctor listened to my pleas to save my life as I described the situation at hand. She then snapped on some latex gloves and tortured me for about 30 seconds. Let me tell you Mommy Bloggers out there that you have my full sympathy in regards to mammograms. Just like Jesus, I wept.

Dr. Bizzell told me that in her expert opinion my you-know-what was probably just fine and dandy (I added the dandy part). She then suggested the problem was probably one of the afflictions that KimmyK had already suggested and that if one of those possibilities were the case she would take no invasive steps. My difficulty with her exam came when she continued to use the term “your little testicle.” I took great offense at this use of language but kept it to myself. After all my pants were still at my ankles and she still wore those latex gloves. I also noted how much her fingers had grown since my last physical.


Yet this latest reassurance was for naught as she ordered an ultrasound just to be sure. Again Lance and Sammy Davis, Jr. came to mind as I waited for her nurse to schedule an appointment. With my oyster bed now throbbing I left her office with just a little (no pun intended) comfort in my thoughts of meeting Jesus at the Pearly Gates a little too early and without one of my gems.

This morning Joan and I discussed the possibility of my ultrasound being performed by one of the “freebies.” I do think you know what I’m talking about. If Sean Connery were to call on Joan I know without a shadow of doubt that our wedding vows are moot and non-enforceable. Likewise if Dana Delaney had done my ultrasound this morning I would expect joint custody of the kids (and I’m not talking about my you-know-whats although that would be negotiable).


Like a teenage boy I drove to the lab in fear that Mr. Wiggles might inflate and cause me great embarrassment (more than I’m expecting here in fact). After filling out the paperwork I waited for Dana to burst through the door at any minute. Much to my surprise and immediate joy a short woman of Eastern European origin butchered my name while calling me back for my exam.

My joy turned to fear as she introduced herself as Olga and “vould like to take pitchers of you scrotum.” Shrinkage has now officially begun. I’m almost positive that this “woman” was an experiment behind the Iron Curtain and made her way to the USA via the KGB. We reached the exam room and she explained what I was supposed to do. “Now, take down jour shorts and undergarments and lay zees towel like so. Put zee scrotum on zees towel. Now pull jew penis up and put zees towel over you penis and we half privacy. Okay?”

I’m not okay since I’m dying of cancer but I’ve been ordered by the Gestapo to do as it says. Several minutes later Olga returns and proceeds to do her dirty work. More shrinkage has now occurred by the way. She puts enough lubricant on my shrunken jewels that I had to change pants when I got home. The next half-hour was filled with pain, howls, weeping, gnashing of teeth and my admission to killing JFK. My grassy knoll was vandalized beyond description. Somewhere in the midst of the torture she asked: “Did jew discover or your daughter?” I’m thinking I don’t know what you do behind the Iron Curtain but folks here don’t do that sort of thing here unless you’re from West Virginia. Joan later told me that she probably meant, “doctor.”

And so I left the exam with knowledge only a person in my condition could appreciate. First I really appreciate that so many of you prayed for me. I’m not sure what you prayed for but STOP! Second, I’m still dying but at a much slower rate than I had worried about over the weekend. I’m thinking that’s a good thing...for now. I reserve the right to change my opinion next tax season or the next dinner I have with my father-in-law. Lastly I’m proud of my “boys” for surviving such a disturbance to their rather mundane routine but as punishment for all the unnecessary worry and fear I promise not to demand beg for sex from my wife for at least…three days. At that point we'll probably need to at least check on how my cyst is doing.