I received an email from Aunt Rose today. She knows that I’m excited about the Tour of California and that today’s stage is in her hometown of Solvang.
Here’s the first email:
Bobby, I went to town to see the race. The weather’s beautiful: nice and sunny. You would love to see all these high-end, fancy bikes. However, I did notice some disturbing things. The riders have very tight pants on and their seats ride up on them. I read in a periodical or maybe it was Reader’s Digest—that this all might cause prostate cancer. Bobby, I know you ride—maybe not nearly as much as these professionals, but do be careful. Love, Aunt Rose.
Well, at least Rose didn’t suggest a bike riding vitamin for me in that correspondence. I heard quite a bit about too much riding which might not do me any favors in the family jewels, but I’m not sure about the prostate cancer claim.
My email reply:
Rose-Thanks for the concern. I never heard that one and by the way, I just got screened for prostate cancer at my local supermarket. Love and Kisses, Bobby.
There, I showed her. I’m nothing like those other guys who are scared of getting screened. I can now ride my bike guilt-free!
An email quickly came back:
Bobby, I’m not sure that those supermarkets screen you right. I saw a report on 6 Action News that they might miss something. Now, I have a doctor who is close to you. He is in a city called Dacula. His name is Dr. Knightblood. Book an appointment as soon as possible. Love, Aunt Rose.
I can’t win. Even though I know that my supermarket visit was legit, Rose made me worry.
I wrote back:
Will do. Thank you for caring.
After that exchange, I committed to not worrying by riding my bike a lot. I went on my merry way for the next three weeks.
At 11 o’clock one evening, I received a call. Guess who phoned.
“You didn’t go, did you?” Rose said.
“Go where?” I innocently replied.
“You didn’t visit Dr. Knightblood,” Rose said in a disappointed tone.
“I didn’t,” I confessed.
Rose did her “research” by phoning Dr. Knightblood’s office. I didn’t expect it. I was hoping she would forget.
“Really, you didn’t need to phone,” I said.
“Ah, but I did,” I coolly responded.
“I’m concerned Bobby. I’ve been around and I know quite a bit. Now go schedule an appointment with Dr. Knightblood,” she said.
As usual, I caved and visited the office. The perky, plump receptionist dressed in all purple had me enter my life’s story on paper.
“Weren’t we supposed to go paperless years ago?” I asked, while she was sipping on a Coke Zero.
“That’s too much trouble and it’s expensive,” she responded in her classic Southern drawl while giggling and sipping the 20 ounce beverage.
After a 90 minute wait that included reading my Blackberry and old Newsweek magazines in the waiting facility and exam room, Dr. Knightblood finally appeared.
A tall, stocky man with Gov. Blago hair and sported a massive University of Georgia Bulldogs ring on his massive hand, Dr. Knightblood shook my hand.
“Dr. Randolph Knightblood,” he said with a firm handshake.
“Your Aunt from California phone and said that you need to get check out,” he said while chuckling and looking at a chart on his clipboard.
“Yes, that’s Rose,” I replied in a half-joking tone.
“I already had a prostate exam at the supermarket,” I stated.
“”That’s funny,” he said. “I’m one of the doctors that participate in that. Your aunt must have thought that your exam was bogus. There are all kinds of rumors that we’re not complete. That is total balderdash.”
“OK, well then…” I said.
“How about we do a full physical exam?” Dr. Knighblood asked. “I’ll have my nurse Misha perform it. She’s always wanted to do a full physical.”
“OK,” I sheepishly replied. “Sure why not.”
“Great to have on board, Bobby,” he said while vigorously shaking my hand with his Bulldogs ring digging deeply into me.
After the doctor vanished, I heard a loud bang at the door. Before, I could answer, Misha barged through the heavy, cold steel door.
“I Misha. I do your exam,” the 300 lb., jet black hair-in-a-bun nurse announced.
“Nice to…” I attempted to say.
“Take off shirt, trouser. You keep underwear on,” she ordered.
“OK,” I said.
“First I hear heart. Next I listen to lung. Then I take pulse,” Misha said.
“All right,” I answer.
“You look in good shape,” she said. “Now stand up next to table and bend over.”
“I already had…” I said, but before I could finish, Misha’s latex gloved left hand up well inside me. She was so far up in me, it felt like my intestines were being ripped out.
“I check your prostate,” she stated.
Here I was in a cold exam room with a hefty nurse’s hand up my ass. Is this what’s it has all come to in this life? Thank you, Aunt Rose. I didn’t know whether if I was doing the right thing or that I was being cleaned out like a fish. There is one thing I didn’t feel and that would be: turned on. My perverted friend Jack would have probably loved this, but me, I’m a realist. This was far from a turn-on.
“OK, get clothes back on,” Misha said. “You are healthy man, like my leader back home—Vladimir Putin. You remind me of him–very handsome.”
“Thank you,” I responded.
“You need to come to Moscow one day,” she said. “They will like you there.”
“I’ll have to do that,” I replied.
After Misha left, I felt that I did the right thing. I hate to be preachy, but getting checked out for prostate cancer is a good thing even if a 300 lb. Russian nurse is the one doing it.