My Physical
The physical was pretty uneventful. No, my doctor didn’t jam her fist, wrist-deep, into my hole, but it did remind me of the doctor who did. He was a friend of the family who I called, “Uncle.” He wasn’t a proctologist. He wasn’t even a doctor. In fact, I’m not sure why his hands were on my shoulders for the entire ten minutes. I’m kidding. In all seriousness, they call me “Uncle.”
Since I listen to the CD of my hypnosis session when I go to bed, and it’s very quiet, I turn the volume up pretty high. Unfortunately, my day started with Quiet Riot screaming, “Cum On Feel The Noize,” at a hundred and twenty decibels. I was gonna ride my bike but google said it was forty-eight degrees. I got a spot and got to the office. At the front desk, I gave them all my information, and they informed me that my co-pay would be thirty-five dollars. I handed over two twenties, which the woman couldn’t accept because they had no change. I remember living in an age when cash was an accepted form of payment. I was at the Apple store a couple of months ago and paid with cash and you’d have thought that I shat on the Genius Bar. Everyone, even the security guard, has one of those portable, credit card machines, but pull out a Jackson and the bygone register drawer must be opened by an employee of Brinks.
I got to the exam room and was told to take off my jacket and get weighed. Learning from my sky diving debacle, I dressed light. I weighed in at 234. Fuck that. I took off my shorts, t-shirt, and boxers, causing quite a stir. I could see the nurse checking out my junk. Is she laughing? I don’t care. I’m cold and 233 and 1/2. Suck it. I asked the nurse if they could draw my blood so I could eat the banana I brought. No. I informed her that when I had good insurance, “good” defined as not purchased at a big box store, they would take my blood first, so I wouldn’t have to kill anyone. “You shouldn’t shop for heath insurance at Wal-Mart,” she said prior to slamming the door. “Costco!” I shouted after her.
My doctor, Malena Law, who is terrific, came in. We chatted, she stethoscoped me, then checked out my eyes, ears, and feet. She said, “I’ll step out while you take off your shorts. Don’t worry, you’ve got a couple of years before THAT exam.” The thing is I’ve had “THAT” exam. Remember my uncle? Actually, I was thirty-one or two and I was getting a physical and the doctor asked, “Would you like me to do a prostate exam?” “Sure. Why not?” “I’ll be gentle.” He gloved up and repeated, “I’ll be gentle,” several more times. I wasn’t the least bit concerned about the exam until I heard the word, “gentle” for the fourteenth time. He lubed up, jammed his finger in my ass, and rooted around. It didn’t hurt, I didn’t moan, nor did I draw wood. The awkward part was when he removed his finger, the glove slipped off his hand and got stuck. He “gently” removed it and gave me a clean bill of health. This time, Dr. Law rolled my balls, made me cough, and that was that. Prior to Dr. “Gentle,” I went to Dr. Jay. When he did a physical, he would x-ray my chest, do a breathing test, and a whole host of exams. I guess you get what you pay for. I was done with my physical. All I had to do was give blood and urine.
I’m not one of those people who fear getting shots or blood drawn. Needles don’t bother me with one exception. For some reason, I can’t watch people shooting up on screen. It skeeves me out to no extent. Ironically, Trainspotting and Requiem For A Dream are both in my top twenty. I got my blood drawn, now it was time for urine. Of course, the bathroom door is locked. After a couple of minutes, some dude walked out looking sheepish, a brown cloud trailing after him. Who you gotta fuck to put a book of matches in here?! I was given a cup and a wet-nap. I wasn’t sure why I got the latter until I began peeing into the cup. It appears there are instructions. First, wash your hands. Woops! Second, unscrew the cap and set it down with the top-side facing down. Nailed it. Third, wipe off the head of your penis with the wet-nap. What?! Do they think I’m dragging my dick in the dirt prior to this appointment? Fourth, begin peeing into the toilet, then move the cup into the stream. Fuck that! I’m peeing straight into the cup. There is no way I’m crossing the stream. I’m running on five hours of sleep and low blood sugar, I’m not gonna walk out of this restroom with urine splash back all over my shorts.
I made an appointment for next year. Just like this year, I’m sure I’ll forget about it until the week before. I presume I’m in good health, but I’ll find out in a week or so. I’ll keep you posted. Unless of course, the news is really bad, then I’ll probably lie about the results of my physical.
