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They call it that because “shoving a big fat finger up your ass” is a terrible marketing slogan
A typical man, which I consider myself to be, has seven holes in his body. The ones above the waist are two-way holes and the ones below are one-way. Or should be.
Except once a year like salmon struggling up the boulder-strewn river to spawn, a highly educated doctor of sound mind pushes one of his latex-clad digits upstream through that tight valve that most of us consider for downstream use only.
It starts with clenched teeth and a tear dripping down the upper cheeks (only the doctor knows what’s dripping down the lower cheeks and he’s not talking), followed by a false sense of relief when the sealed chamber is finally breached. Gripping the table like a vice I prepare for the exploration.
They say it’s just one digit but I’ve never looked to confirm. It feels more like he’s in up to his elbow.
Then we enter the second phase of the exam: The hunt for the elusive prostate. A wiggle to the left, a wiggle to the right, and he does the hokey pokey all the way up deep into my intestines. He never announces whether he’s discovered any buried treasure “Look! Gold doubloons and a flintlock!”
“All done,” he barks with pride, and it feels like I’m birthing a cow as he yanks out his arm.
I usually give out an involuntary grunt while my body melts into a puddle on the exam table while Doctor Strangeglove wipes my ass with a tissue. How humiliating.
I would like to take a moment to apologize for using the gender-specific male term when referring to the fictionally amalgamated doctor above. I recognize that many highly-competent doctors are women but I shop for male doctors only because I can’t envision a woman with her finger up my butt. I can’t get past the thought of the two of us participating in some sadistic twisted Fellini film on the exam table. And it concerns me that I might like it, and given the circumstances, the evidence would be hard to conceal.
Oh, and I always pick male doctors with small hands. Credentials be damned, they only need tiny hands with stick fingers. That’s it.
So, I went to a doctor last week like I do every year. You see I have a history of prostate cancer in my family and an annual digital exam is an essential feature of my adult life. Like visiting a wealthy uncle in prison on his birthday, it’s a dreaded but necessary pilgrimage to secure my future.
“These exams are very important,” they say. “They” are the brilliant scientists that I honor and respect and so I follow their advice without question. Some of them even specialize in asses, though I can’t imagine why. It must pay exceedingly well.
I have a new doctor now, a guy from Kazakhstan so his bio said. Small dude with small hands. Male of course, and this was our first dance. He poked around all the holes above my waist and listened intently to my heart and lungs. “Hmmm,” was the extent of his diagnostic report.
I was braced for the inevitable, ‘drop your pants and bend like a paperclip’ but instead, he said “Everything looks good, do you have any questions?”
He forgot!
Oh my God!
Now, what do I do?
Do I just walk out and skip the Soviet invasion this year? The devil on my left shoulder said, “yes, of course you should, you idiot.”
Or do I remind him? The sadistic angel who probably has no anus said, “You need to tell him, it’s important for a long and healthy life.”
I looked that smug doctor in the eye, knowing that one little finger was standing between me and my Dairy Queen cheeseburger lunch. I like to reward my digestive tract with a nice burger and fries after the event since I don’t smoke anymore.
“Um, the uh, you know, prostate thing. Exam. Do we…”
“Oh no. We don’t do that anymore,” he thankfully interrupted.
The room exploded in the hallelujah chorus. It was beautiful. Tears of joy erupted from my eyes and I finally saw God in the flesh, winking at me as if the miracle was a special secret just between us.
“Okay, sounds fine,” I said casually while bolts of electricity ricocheted around inside my head. “No further questions, your honor,” as I calculated how long it would take to dash around him, out the door, down the elevator, and into the car before he came to his senses.
You see, there can be no follow-up questions to a statement like that. I don’t need any supporting details. Anything I asked might lead to a discovery I wouldn’t like. I could learn that he’s incompetent or not a real doctor or he’s just saying this because he ran out of gloves or accidentally confused it with a pelvic exam. It might be a Kazakhstanian holiday I’m not aware of or some sick joke he and his nurses are playing on me.
So, I just nodded and collected my gear, ready for the sprint.
Don’t say a word.
“Those exams don’t help,” he said.
Damn it, he spoke. But so far no serious damage. “Mmmm,” I grunted.
“Even we doctors don’t enjoy them” he joked. I should hope not.
I can still make it out of here. He’s a small man. I could body-check him into the wall with my shoulder and make it down to the car before he sounds the alert.
“Seems that the science doesn’t show any measurable benefit from a digital exam. Today’s PSA tests are quite effective now.”
Wait, what? They don’t help? Does this mean that digital exams just recently started not working? Or have they always not worked? Have I been tricked into enduring this inhumane violation for decades for no reason at all? Years of strange men with strange little fingers poking around in my nether regions where no living thing should ever be?
I squeaked out a “thank you,” as I walked past him into the hallway, my worldview in shatters on the floor behind me.
Cheeseburgers will never be the same, but on the positive side, I can now see female doctors with big hands.
😂
Fantastic piece!