The Shocker

It’s something that looms over your head since you are old enough to listen. It’s the steak and potatoes of many male stand-up comedian’s shtick. It’s a 10 foot by 10 foot room getting smaller by the second. It’s the Moon River scene from Fletch.  It’s all it is made out to be. It’s not for the faint of heart. It’s The Shocker.

It’s supposed to hit when you’re forty, but I deftly evaded the appointments for a year. Scheduling a business meeting that would force me to cancel it. Making up pitiful excuses. Hell, just canceling the appointment for no reason whatsoever. Except fear.

I finally made it to the appointment, about thirteen months behind schedule, and only then because my wife’s eyes told me she couldn’t be with a man who hadn’t had his prostate checked. Well, her mouth told me that, but same difference. Do it for the kids!

Things went well. Ticker was good. BP was 100/60, which was a shocker (not The Shocker) in its own right. The doc and I had wonderful desultory conversation. I thought I had even talked my way out of it, with my smooth desultory conversation and all.

The Culprit

Smiles were interrupted by the telltale smack of a latex glove on skin. My shoulders sagged. The doc gave me a look that said: “Think of it from my end.” Good point. I assumed the position.

Years of angst, a few seconds of discomfort, and ultimately a clear mind for a year that my prostate was in swell shape. It wasn’t that bad, but keep in mind that I told a friend that my vasectomy wasn’t that bad, and his boys blew up to the size of a grapefruit. Results may vary.

Get yours checked out at a GP near you.