File this under The Glamorous Life of a Writer. I played at the Carrboro Music Festival yesterday and after our set I wandered up to the Cat's Cradle to check out Joe Bell and the Stinging Blades. Their drummer, the amazing Ed Mezynski, openly chided me for the lack of new Planetary content.
I know. I've been busy.
But I feel an obligation to entertain you, the reader, especially during the upcoming Stolen Election Season.
So let's talk about your prostate. Or, to be more accurate, the prostate exam, a harsh reminder of your body's frailty.
Women, understandably, have zero sympathy for us, and I'm OK with that. I am.
However, if you want to know how many men have endured this digital indignity, go into a crowded room and snap on a latex glove. The men who jump like startled deer are the ones who have bent over the examing table and let a stranger approach them from behind.
Now, you may be wondering why I'm writing about this intrusion into one's private parts, and if you are you're probably a newcomer to The Planet.
But unlike other topics I've examined, I'm writing about this one because I'm a working writer and I've been assigned this subject for a magazine article, and my deadline is today.
My main task for the day will be refraining from big hands jokes.
Because I'm a serious writer.
(Note: Some people may be confused as this post changed a bit from earlier in the day. Blogger done ate my baby and I had to recreate this from memory. Don't thank me. I am your humble servant.)