Screw You Guys. I’m Going Home. And I’m Taking My Penis With Me.

(If you need catching up: Part I is here, and part II is here.)

The docs examined their handiwork, and proclaimed it to be Good, then went on to tell me that they had to change course mid-surgery and go ahead with the buccal mucosa graft. I said, “Mmmm mmmmfit,” which loosely translated from the original Klingon means, “No shit.”

They told me to get rested and I’d see them in the morning.

Meanwhile, in the bed next to me, my roommate was in some serious pain. He’d used up all his allotted morphine, I guess, because he kept calling the nurse and asking when he could get more in his clicker. I was hoping that they would cave and give him some because he was obviously in agony. We were separated by a thin curtain (dignity!) so I could hear him quite well. Sleep was pretty hard to come by, but at around 11:00, he buzzed the nurse and said, “I think I’m ready to take a dump.”

I heard the nurse come in, and they set up one of those standalone commodes. I know this because the nurse said, “I brought in a commode for you to use.”

There were some rustling noises as they got him out of bed, and on to the john. I then heard an explosion which can only result from several days of non-compliance to the PWD Ethos.

Then, oddly, I heard him snoring. Then, the nurse went into panic mode, and called code on him.

I was wide awake at this point.

Filed under: Beavis, You Are One Dumb Sonofabitch, LOLPENIS!, What the Fuck?

In Which My Penis and I Have an Encounter With Modern Medicine™

If you haven’t already, this will make more sense if you read the first part.

If you’ve had a recent encounter with Modern Medicine™, you know that a hospital of any decent size will have a well-oiled bureacracy that rivals that of the federal government, both in efficiency and friendliness.

So it was that after I arranged an appointment for the surgery with the New Cock Doc, I got a packet in the mail with a whole shit-ton of useful information, and also some forms (surprise!) to fill out with respect to my current health status.

I wasted no time getting the forms back, since I was at home and had all the information handy. Insurance info, health history, medications, the whole shitaree went on that form, which I mailed back in the enclosed, pre-addressed envelope; all in the name of efficiency and preparation. Sending them the forms well ahead of time would give them ample opportunity to lose them.

All that was really left was to make travel arrangements and wait.

But, as the wise philosopher and sage Tom Petty once noted, the waiting is the hardest part.

Filed under: Beavis, You Are One Dumb Sonofabitch, LOLPENIS!, What the Fuck?

Come In. Sit Down. Can I Get You a Cup of Coffee? Are you Comfortable? Let’s Talk About My Penis.

Background: About 12 years ago, I had an “infection,” it wasn’t that kind of infection, but an infection nonetheless. A quick round of antibiotics later, and everything was good to go.

Or so I thought.

Fast forward to 2008. I’m in a hotel in NOLA, and after enjoying some local fare, I made a pit stop in my room and notice that my output was, how shall we say? Tinged with red.

I’m not a doctor, nor do I play one on the Internets. (Well, except on alt.furries.lame.tv.re-creations. Call me Doggie Bowser, MD. Don’t judge.) Anyway, I surmised instantly that this could not be a Good Thing, so I made a mental note to make an appointment with my (youngish female) doctor upon my return.

I won’t go into the details of that visit, other than to say that I understand the term “clinical detachment” much better, and also my doc actually LOL’d when were done and I said, “Usually when I get that done, it’s not covered by insurance.”

That visit led to a referral to a urologist, henceforth known as “The Cock Doc.” The Cock Doc, while a competent and highly regarded professional, has the personality of a bag of sand. Which made me uncomfortable because what better opportunity are you going to have to make dick jokes? Dick jokes are the universal social lubricant, as we all know.

A quick examination and history, and he decided he wanted to look at my bladder using a small camera. It took me 3 nanoseconds to understand that the odds were strongly against him working the camera down through my kidneys. The shortest trip from A to B was obviously via my urethra, and you don’t have to have a degree in physiology to understand the implications of that.

The procedure is called a cystoscopy. You need only watch a minute of this video to get a good visual on what a cystocopy is all about.

Yeah. So, anyway, the dreaded date arrived, and you can imagine that I entered the exam room with some trepidation; especially as it looks a bit like a medieval torture chamber, what with the stirrups and all. Yes. Stirrups.

Now, as you can imagine, you probably don’t want that camera run up to your bladder without a little something to numb the pain, and that is provided. In gel form. Delivered the same route that the camera will follow.

So after getting through being numbed up, and waiting for the camera insertion, it takes all of 15 seconds for him to say, “Can’t get in there. You have a stricture.”

Stricture?

“Scarring and closure of the urethra.” Of course, I think immediately of Hank Hill and his narrow urethra, but the LOL’s just aren’t coming for some reason.

“What do we do about that?”

“We’ll have to cut it open.”

Filed under: Beavis, You Are One Dumb Sonofabitch, Get The Fuck Outta Here!, LOLPENIS!, What the Fuck?