Tuesday, October 13, 2009
It all started with a woman rubbing a lubed wand over my balls.
Happy, happy, joy, joy
The Prince of all Mexicans|MySpace Videos
It lasted almost an hour and it was the least dignified thing I've done since I wrote that direct-to-DVD screenplay.
As with that experience, this picture didn't turn out so good either. So my doctor looked at the sonograms, gave the picture a thumbs down and set up an appointment with a specialist.
For the past two weeks, Jenny and I have lived with the future of my balls hanging over us.
(Oh, that doesn't sound right.)
I said, "I'll become a fat eunuch in a muu muu, sitting around the house bitching in soprano," which made Jenny laugh, always good medicine.
Today, I met with the urologist. Without going into any more disturbing detail than I already have, his diagnosis was that I'm not sick, I'm just old. Apparently, it happens to a lot of us chair-bound geezers.
His cure? Move to Bora Bora. It's this society that has caused my balls to lose their photogenicity. Who knew?
So today, gentle readers, I am as happy as an old man can be, which is damn happy indeed.
I feel like someone shot at me and missed.