Category Archives: Prostate Examination

Hot Air, Now And Forever


I don’t want to slip into 1980s, Sinbad-brand humor, you know — women be different from men — but, to tell the truth, women be different from men.

(If you don’t know who Sinbad was, or if you’ve mercifully forgotten him, don’t ask questions. Just be thankful.)



Anyway, my post yesterday about the dreaded prostate exam brought scads of double-Xers out of the woodwork to proclaim that a doctor’s digits inserted into a man’s rear entrance for the purpose of gauging the size and consistency of said man’s gland is, well, nothing.

Nothing, that is, compared to what women have suffered.

It’s not even nothing. It is, these commenters will have us believe, akin to getting one’s hair tousled by a favorite uncle or finding a twenty dollar bill on the sidewalk.

What is it about women that they take such pride in the type and extent of pain they can suffer?

◗ No pain on Earth can compare to that of childbirth.

◗ Nothing is like getting a pap smear.


Torture Device Or Stainless Steel Duck?

◗ The full pelvic exam must have been developed by a psychotic sadist.

One correspondent wrote, “Guys are such wimps.”

I get the feeling my women friends are, well, proud of the pain they’ve suffered.

Such a strange thing to be proud of. Especially considering my own life has been devoted to the avoidance of pain. I’m proud of no pain. I am proud, though, of having dodged countless episodes of pain in my 57 years.

Women, I love you all. But, y’know, we’re just different.

Maybe I am getting all Sinbad-y here. I’d better stop.

Censorship And Sensibility

As you know, this is Banned Book Week. And the number one challenged book in the nation for the year 2012 was — drum roll, please — the Dav Pilkey juvenile story series, Captain Underpants.

According to the American Library Association, the Capt. U. books were banned and otherwise persecuted by constipated, paranoiac, supremely pain-in-the-ass parents and officious do-gooders because Pilkey’s prose includes bad language.

Captain Underpants

The Officer In Question

No, not fuck or blowjob. Not that kind of bad language. And certain not rape, war, dismemberment, nuclear bomb, or slavery — hell, nixing books that contain those obscenities would probably leave nothing for our precious teens and impressionable adults to read. Which, come to think of it, just might be what many of the busybodies of this holy land want. But, back to Pilkey, his word sins include fart and snot rockets. The monster.

This variety of verbiage has driven professional tut-tutters to organize and pressure school boards and municipal libraries to remove such smut from the public’s shelves.

Makes you want to thank god we have such caring, conscientious individuals around to protect our delicate eardrums and eyes, no?

Anyway, my fave banned book always has been Mark Twain’s The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. Use the comments section on this page to tell us what your most beloved banned book has been. Or, if you prefer, let us know the last banned book you’ve read. The following list may help. It includes selected banned titles from the Library of Congress’s Books That Shaped America exhibit.

  • The Autobiography of Malcolm X
  • Beloved
  • The Call of the Wild
  • Fahrenheit 451
  • Gone with the Wind


Banned? Honestly?

  • The Great Gatsby
  • In Cold Blood
  • Invisible Man
  • Moby Dick
  • Stranger in a Strange Land
  • To Kill a Mockingbird

Moby fucking Dick?

Look, folks, these uptight lunatics have to be stopped. The first thing any of us can do is read a banned book. Do it.

Painfully Hot Air

The End Of Western Medicine

That’s it. I’ve had it. I’m starting a campaign against western medicine.

For years I’ve thought those who rail and moan against medicine as practiced in this holy land are as in touch with reality as people who visit palm readers. The anti-allopaths push dozens of varieties of snake oil — homeopathy, ayurvedic, magnetic bracelets, reiki, the list goes on. Not a one is based on any rational, fact-based body of thought.

Magnetic Therapy

This Is Costume Jewelry, Not A Medical Procedure

Still, people swear by those things.

I’ve kept my distance from these fabulists for as long as I can. No more.

I’m with you, folks! Down with doctors! Fie on medicine!

My visit yesterday to the doctor pushed me over the edge. I woke up Monday morning certain I had contracted a bladder infection. Search me how it happened. Apparently as one gets on in years, bladder infections, among countless other tortures inflicted upon the human race by a caring, loving god, become commoner. Great. I can’t wait to hit my 60s and 70s.

As I described my symptoms to the doctor, she nodded her head knowingly. “Classic case,” she said. “We’ll take some tests but there’s no doubt you’ve got a bladder infection.”

Cool, right? I figured she’d write off a quick prescription, I’d high-tail it out of there, and be back to micturating fewer than six dozen times a day.

Now, a little background about men of a certain age and the visit to the doctor’s office. We don’t like to do it. You know that already. Non-males like to speculate that it’s because we’re hard-heads or just trying to be tough guys. You’re wrong.

Here’s why we put off going to the doctor’s office until our limp carcasses are dragged in: the dreaded prostate exam.

There is nothing in this world worse than the prostate exam. When that rugby team’s plane crashed in the snowy Andes some 40 years ago and the survivors had to resort to cannibalism in order to remain alive, they comforted themselves by reminding each other that they weren’t undergoing prostate exams. They didn’t show that part in the movie.

I had one doctor who was smart enough not to tell me he was going to do the exam. He simply started putting on the latex glove. I’d grumble and grimace at him and undo my belt. The poor man — I called him every name in the book every time he reached into me to gauge the size and consistency of that most pain in the ass gland. Often I’d coin names to call him. He told me once he considered me quite an imaginative verbal abuser.

Latex Glove

My doctor yesterday — as I’ve indicated, she’s a woman — just isn’t as sympathetic to the male’s delicate sensitivities to the procedure. She dropped the bomb on me. “Well,” she said, “We’re going to have to check your prostate.”

This kind of advance warning doesn’t do a man any good. It gave me too much time to think about how much I’d rather crawl bare-chested over broken glass. She took her sweet time, typing a note or two into her laptop, washing her hands, drying them carefully, asking me to drop my trousers, telling me it wouldn’t be all that bad (Hah!)

By the time I bent over the exam table, I was in a state of panic. I was drenched with sweat. My heart rate approached 200. I became convinced that I loathed this poor doctor more than anyone I’d ever met in my life.

“I’ll make it quick,” she said as she assumed the position behind me.

Sure, I thought, quick. That’s what they say to guys who stand before the firing squad.

I will say this for the doctor: Her digits were not as massive as those of the average male medic. I remember one doctor whose fingers, I became convinced, were the girth of the average man’s forearm.

The next time I have to suffer the dreaded prostate exam again, I’ll insist it be performed by a female doctor.

On the other hand, I doubt if I’ll really have to endure this peculiar torture ever again. Like I said, I’m starting my own private, personal campaign against western medicine. American medical practitioners seem to have a fixation with the prostate exam. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised one day to see a paramedic slipping on the dreaded latex glove at an accident scene where one or more middle-aged-plus men are involved.

Is it just me, or does anyone else get the sense that every time a doctor sees a man aged, say, 57, he gets a gleam in his eye and rubs his hands together evilly? Is the prostate exam some kind of karmic justice visited upon males for their history of warfare, slavery, and rape?

Well, I’ve had it. No more! I never started any wars. I owned no slaves. I never raped a soul. There’s no reason why I should have to suffer the dreaded prostate exam ever again.

Death to the latex glove!

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