It’s been one year since my super-duper surgery and they called me in for the big-one-year-later-check-up.  Everything was great.  But then they called later that afternoon and asked if I could come back in the morning, they had a quick test they wanted to do (and I could pick up my insulin, et al., at the same time.)  Fine, I said.
 Before I start this story in earnest I need to preface:  The most unsacred, foul patch of ground I’ve ever walked on is the grimy stone of the L.A. County Hospital Parking Structure.  Everything on the oily surface has been used at least twice:  needles, tampons & condoms from 1973.  All the human fluids and empty prescription bottles have been crushed by thousands of automobiles, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week for 75 years.
I’d rather traipse through the garbage dump in my Birkenstocks than wear tit-high fishing waders through the L.A. County Hospital Parking Lot.
 So I put on some real shoes.  Left my Birkenstocks at home.  The result being, I can’t walk properly and I completely wipe out.  You ever done that?  Just take a nosedive and land belly-flopped on the pavement?  Scrape your knee & maul an elbow?  Well I landed in the goo of the L.A. County Hospital Parking Structure and my first thought was: “I’m a classy guy.”  I looked up and my nose was on a bumper sticker that read: “Don’t Abandon Babies.”  I thought: “Now that’s a cause I can get behind.”  Then I thought: “Who do I have to blow to get a Silkwood Shower around here?”  I could only see a smudge or two on my jeans & shirt but I knew I was covered with microcosmic willie-germs of gigantic proportions.  Damn cooties.
 I’m going up the elevator and I nod hello to a cop who’s holding a sawed-off shotgun.  He’s guarding two skin-heads who’s noses are against the back wall of the elevator, their hands and feet are shackled, their tattooed asses hanging out the back of their hospital gowns.  Norman Rockwell never painted this one.  The cop nodded back with a smile.  The whole 13th floor of the hospital is a prison.  In fact, the hospital won’t schedule surgeries on the weekend because of all the street shootings and knifings coming into the E.R.

 So I get to my appointment and I find out it’s not just any test.  It’s a rectal exam (for prostate stuff).  Damn.  I wore the complete wrong underwear for a rectal exam.  I was wearing the absolute, bottom of the drawer, last pair before laundry day undies.  They are stretched out & ripped in such a way that I might as well be wearing a loincloth.  I think to myself:  “I’m so damn classy.”  Then I thought about Ci Ci yelling at us during the thread about underwear.   I was half hoping to get one of the many exotic lady doctors that work at County.  I got a guy who looked like Brad Pitt (not Muscle-Pitt from “Troy” but Scrappy-Pitt circa “Thelma & Louise”).  I thought of all the ladies who commented on how Brad was one of the movie stars who they would most like to receive a rectal exam from…(or whatever that thread was about.)
 First he has me lay down and examines my penis.  He looked at the head of my cock so intensely I almost forgot I had shaved my balls.  He was either attempting to look down my urethra or trying to smell me.  Either way I felt he had an inordinate amount of peach-fuzz on his ear lobes for such a young guy.
 Then I’m up and bending over the bench.  He lubes up and in the finger goes.  I’m having a “sense-memory” of Sui Lin.  (Although the feeling is different…Sui Lin didn’t feel like she was searching for something.)  He asks, “Is that tender?  Does it hurt?”  I’m thinking: “Hell no!  Go for three!”  And, of course, it wouldn’t be a complete rectal exam at County Hospital unless someone walked in on it.  Nice memories for that nurse.

I’m proud to say I have no S.T.D’s, my blood pressure is great, my blood sugar is completely under control and absolutely no problems with my prostate what so ever.

That’s the report from the field.   Love,  Jockeypants.