Bling You WHERE?

Everywhere I go, people ask me the same two questions:  “How do you feel?”  And, “What’s been shoved up your ass lately?”

Aah, the public life of a prostate cancer patient.  Well, hell.  Sign me up.  Whatever else my faults, I sure as hell ain’t shy or drop-dead gorgeous, particularly from the waist down.

Anyway, a few weeks ago I report to the urologist for the installation of my “guides,” the metallic inserts to be attached to my prostate so the radiation oncologist has a target to aim his beam at.  The photo here is from the urologist’s his rest room – I like how the word “FIRST” is added in as an afterthought.  (By now I’m used to misspellings and grammatical fuck-ups in south Florida, where ignorant redneckery runs naked, wild, and proud.)

Despite the fact that my urologist is young and wields seriously sharp surgical instruments, I like and trust him.  Besides, he’s only one of I don’t know how many by now who have run large  pointed surgical and diagnostic instruments up my ass, only some of these medical professionals.

“You know the drill,” he says, briskly.  “Up on the table, on your side, left leg up, ass out this way.  I’ll insert the probe, shoot up the anesthetic, and you’ll feel the vibrations as I attach the guides.  Any questions?”

Yeah.  What’s the capital of  Vermont?

“Montpelier.  That’s French for ‘Don’t distract your doctor when he’s got sharp tools up your ass.’  Anything else?”

Smart-ass rat fucking bastard.  Besides, Guido is standing by.  Whose wife wouldn’t want to see her husband get his ass stuffed?  She’s taking lessons.  She knows where I sleep.

Whimpering bravely, I assume the position.  Doc  proceeds to insert a fucking canoe paddle up my pink tender asshole – I can’t see his face, but I know he’s smirking – and 10 minutes later, when I finally exhale, I taste my own sphincter.  “Okay?” he calls out.

What if I say No?

“We cue the canned laughter.  But we’re almost done.”

When he pulls out the Polaris missile I try to fart in his face, but Houston, we have a problem: no sensation, no control.   I understand how the ocean floor a mile below Deepwater Horizon feels.

“Congratulations,” says Dr. Penetration.  “You are now the proud owner of 4 gold chips, permanently affixed to your prostate.  Anticipate getting mugged in tough neighborhoods, and hearing alarm bells when going through airport security.”

Yes but will I still be able to play the violin?

“Damn, don’t you know any routines from THIS century?”

Guido takes me home.  I do not vomit or faint in the elevator  — Doc told us stories about his patients who have delayed reactions like that; he’s a popular guy out there in Memorial West – and I  think about having gold jewelry up inside where the sun don’t shine.  Does this make me a rap artist?   Before this procedure, on a daily basis I wear 3 wrist bracelets, an arm band, 2 necklaces, a waist chain, and 21 toe rings.  Does butt bling 4 count as body jewelry?

“You left out the wedding ring,” Guido reminds me, just a trifle coldly..

Wow.  What a great moment to stop talking.

This entry was posted in Shaken and Stirred. Bookmark the permalink.

7 Responses to Bling You WHERE?

  1. Lois Terms says:


  2. Ruh Roh says:

    That sign is a hoot and a half. You’d think somebody in the office would find it worthwhile to redo it, wouldn’t you? I guess not enough people tried writing their name on the specimen cup AFTER they filled it, even though somebody added the word “first” in step 3.

    Hey – Is this a government office?

  3. Joe Balls says:

    Gosh, I learn something every day. I thought the capital was Burlington. Or Montevideo.

    If you really wear that much jewelry already, I doubt 4 tiny chips of gold buried deep in your butt will have any impact on airport scanners. But if you do encounter problems, you have an excuse to moon the TSA.

  4. Was this a time warp procedure. I would suggest that your current 60 year old A-hole is hardly a “tender ‘ and ‘pink’ area.

    Once again you’re mixing it up with veal, God Dammit. When they said your last doctor was a butcher, they meant it.

    When I was at your house, I lost a scale model of a 1958 Ford Thunderbird which i think I left on your couch. Can you have your doctor see if it’s there and if yes, do the trunk and doors still open?

    • Diesel Fitter says:

      “Flashlight, hell. Help me find the keys to my truck and we’ll DRIVE the hell out of here.”

  5. sharpshooter says:

    I must say you certainly have a weird sense of humor, but amazingly you are able to relate this procedure and actually are able to make humor out of a tough situation. Glad to see you are having this thing treated properly and agressively and hopefully my friend, you will defeat this sickness. If your ears have an ocassional ring, is because Yono and yours truly remember you and talk about you often.
    We still have to schedule a meeting at the boardwalk to share a few beers, a slice of pizza and meet.

  6. * Rim Shot * says:

    “We cue the canned laughter.”

    Seriously? “Canned” laughter?

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s