Mrs Bison will I’m sure be disappointed with my last post. Not because she won’t agree with it, but because she much prefers stories which contain hilarious references to bizarre sexual acts and bodily functions to those which she describes as “rants” about political subjects. Politics bores her, but she does love a good fart story. I have tried to point out that I can only write about funny stuff at the rate at which it actually happens to me, whereas stupid shit is around me every day, and sometimes it’s just important to write something, so you don’t completely lose the faculty.
Nevertheless, Mrs Bison was delighted when I got a prostate exam this week.
It was only a routine check-up, of the type that physicians insist on giving you periodically in order that they will agree to occasionally phone through an Ambien prescription for jetlag on international trips. I’m not sure what value there is in these check-ups. They measure height and weight, but since my doctor is short man with an impressively porky appearance (greatly increased, by the way, since my last check-up) it does beg the question what difference knowing this would make. Sure, I’m still waiting for the blood test results, the main purpose of which seems to be to find a way to get 75% of the adult population on statins, but since I don’t believe in statins there’s probably not much riding on that test either. The bar for a medical check-up seems pretty low – a pulse, blood pressure somewhat below “imminent death” levels, and no hernia (“cough please – and again”) – seems to be all that’s required. Oh, and the aforementioned prostate exam.
I won’t go into the details. If you’re a man over 40 you probably know very well what’s involved, and if you’re a man under 40 I don’t want to spoil the surprise. If you’re a woman you don’t know the experience, but frankly I’d just have to put up with you telling me how much worse pelvic exams are, and I can do without that. It’s not that I’m in any way demeaning the unpleasantness of that whole procedure but here for me is the salient difference: a woman’s vagina was expressly designed for someone to shove their fingers in. You can get a baby’s head out, for God’s sake. And that’s not a trick anyone’s arsehole is designed to pull off, much as it might seem like it after a grand slam skillet breakfast, coffee and a full stack of pancakes.
No, fingers in a vagina is “as nature intended”. Fingers up your arse is “whoa, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”. Somehow I’d got it into my mind, based on previous experiences, that this was a quick “up we go, poke it a bit, out again and hand you the tissues” event. Maybe I just told myself that, as a way to deal with the trauma. Suffice it to say that this time the doctor was inclined to spend a bit more time in there. At one point I wondered if he was looking for his car keys. He wasn’t so much examining the prostate as kneading it like a stress ball. Maybe it kept slipping out of his hand or something, because I certainly got my money’s worth out of that part of the examination.
Then, even after the fingers come out, the process isn’t over. Now you have to stand with your pants around your ankles and wipe your arse with a fistfull of Kleenex, to get all the jelly out. My God he used a lot of jelly. And you always wonder just how bad the carnage is going to be. After all, he’s up past the sphincter, where all manner of brown things might be dwelling. You have to hope you emptied the bomb bay earlier because the last thing you want to see is him pulling his hand out, covered in last night’s chicken biryani. It must happen, right? Some poor bastard turns forty, doesn’t know what’s coming, gets bent over and next thing you know it’s like a Brazilian Scat party in the doctor’s office. I’m just saying…
When I got home Mrs Bison, always the sensitive one, wanted to know if I “felt anything” when he was poking around. You know – it’s supposed to be the male G spot, right. I once saw a nature program, on the BBC I think, where semen was harvested from an unconscious gorilla using a vibrator up it’s arse. Of course I had never heard of prostate exams back then and my only thought was how small the gorilla’s weenie was, and how pissed he must be, to be this great big jungle king with a tiny, tiny penis, and meanwhile the tapir’s running around, just an ugly hairy pig thing, but with a huge pink dick that could reach the floor and beyond. And you know Mrs Gorilla’s like “why don’t you try eating some of those nut things he eats because it seems to be working for him”.
Anyway, I’m pleased (no, delighted) to say that no movement occurred. No George Kostanza moment for me. In fact I’m pretty sure that whole prostate G spot thing is all a load of bollocks. I don’t care if you’d been up there for thirty minutes working that think like a speedball, you still wouldn’t have been harvesting anything from me, I assure you. Last exam I had, a few years back, was a female nurse, and she didn’t get a rise out of me either. There’s a really attractive female physician at the practice and I guess she’d be the “acid test” but I’m fairly certain I’d require a reach-around even then.
No, the best part about the whole medical was being able to eat again after the twelve hour fasting period for the blood test. It was a blessed relief, especially as I had a whole bowl of tapir nuts waiting for me when I got home…
Copyright © 2012 Edward Bison