Hell Week, Part II
(To recap in case you didn’t read the first part: Our intrepid narrator finds a lump in his left man tittie. Could be cancer. Go read the previous post: Hell Week, Part I.)
I’ve been living for 31 years, a good chunk of which I can actually remember. You can easily exclude anything I did in my first 5 years because I didn’t know better and I didn’t really do all that much damage anyhow. Plus I don’t remember any of it. From that point forward I can remember stuff, albeit mostly pointless stuff early on, like hanging with some neighborhood kid catching salamanders or breaking the finger of a little girl. Crap like that. Nothing harmful to me, or to anyone else for that matter. Well, unless you consider the case of the young girl who would grow up having to go lefty during all future masturbatory sessions due to a poorly reconstructed pointer finger on her right hand.
Sorry about that Stephanie!
As the years ticked by I stopped breaking fingers and began breaking hearts. (Lady killa, y’all!) I developed my sense of humor as time passed. A type of humor in which Jesus, retards, and annoying people took center stage. And while I always made a point to make fun of myself as much as anyone else, I was setting a dangerous precedent. My odds were increasing with each “Jimmy the Retard Chain Mail” I sent, that my first child would end up being retarded. That each time a “You can tell the size of the woman driving a car by the number of bumper stickers on said car.*” or “You would think that you’d see more Mexican filled sedans in the car pool lanes.**” crack slipped out I was cementing my fate. A fate that would deliver my true soul mate upon my arrival in Bangladesh, complete with lack of limbs, mild retardation, and probably only one eye.
*The higher the number of bumper stickers the larger the woman. It’s science.
** I’m surprised they haven’t started showing more Mexicans in sedan commercials. I know marketers love to make sure there are always an Asian and a Black person in the mix, but who loves sedans more than Mexicans? I submit that the answer is nobody. And I’d also like to announce my plans for a third row seat in future sedan models which I will henceforth begin calling, “Abuelo y primos row seating.”
So I stared at the ceiling, one hand on the boob I was going to lose, and just knew it was going to be cancer.
I was going to have to get my tit removed, nipple and all. My only next move would be to get a cadaver nipple/areola combo to replace my old one and go on living*. There’d be only two cadavers available that day, and I’d go with the black lady’s huge, dark colored areola and mangled nipple. It would certainly look weird, but what better way to acclimate an adopted African baby than with a black nipple for it to suckle**. Hell, maybe I’d see if they could give me the whole milk gland ductwork so I could freak people out by squirting my delicious tit-milk across the room. I only use milk a couple times a year, so it’d also be nice to have some on hand for the rare occasion I need to make mac and cheese.
*I’d probably have to start my own breast cancer awareness site called something like, “Rock Out With Your One Tittie Out!”
**Adopting an African baby is the new black, which had originally lost its luster to the new pink, only to both lose out to MySpace becoming the new it thing. Facebook, which is becoming the new Myspace, is terribly gay. And until government steps in and allows such things, gayness like Facebook is not allowed to be the new anything. LaCoste tried to take things over with their brilliant idea of combining polo shirts that are too small for the wearer and collars turned upwards in the douchebag salute. A look that when worn together with highlighted hair spiked straight up in the air with as much gel as possible, is also horrifically gay. Not too mention retarded. Thus we’re back to black by government order.
Anyhow, I found myself putting off visit to a doctor. I was hoping the thing would disappear and I wouldn’t have to do anything about it. I also wasn’t all that excited to explain to people that, not only do I have a predominantly female problem that I need checked out, but yes, I was feeling up my own man boob at the time I noticed it. Even though all I was doing was stretching and running my hand across my tit, I still felt like everyone was going to be wondering what the hell I was doing with myself that I was able to detect a lump under my nipple. Not exactly a couple things I was eager to start talking to people about.
I was in a medical office to do my job, which involves selling random supplies which medical related businesses use plenty of. I’m like Office Max for these people. I usually bring snacks when I arrive because everyone loves a good snack, and it helps you get back quicker in case there happens to be someone else there wishing to take the doctor’s or the staff’s time. In fact, this brings up a quick side story.
I was in this same office on a Tuesday afternoon, probably around 2:30 one day. I was still back there at about 3pm when a terribly plain looking woman walked in from a drug company. She walked back into the lunch room while I was in there and started unpacking a huge amount of food. Basically, enough food to easily cover the office for lunch despite it being only about an hour and a half since their actual lunch finished. She began talking all about how SHE has the 3pm appointment, and that SHE has had this appointment for blah, blah, blah. Good for her, but walking in on a different reps time with an office is a no-no. Etiquette calls for you to wait your turn, whether you bring food or not. Well, because she walked in a side door with the food delivery guy and because she thinks her shit doesn’t stink, she just uglied her way right in the room and expected me to leave. Uh, not today sugar tits!
So I find out that the staff hates her. She basically said to the doctor one day that she’d like to bring a snack every week at the same time and asked if he’d be ok with that. He said sure, so she took it to mean that she had some sort of trump card over anyone trying to do their job in that office as long as she sent food in. So I decided that I would begin making sure that I fucked with her 3pm appointment by showing up every Tuesday at 2:30pm with waaaay better food for the staff. Cold Stone Creamery, anybody?
So the best part of this plan is that the office takes time for the docs and all to get a chance to see you, ensuring that you almost always stay back there for an hour. This caused a delay in getting back for Miss Thang, who everyone in the region knows as “The chick that looks Mormon and has a shitty attitude?” She would now have to sit in the waiting room for upwards of a half hour while her food sat in back with me and the staff, who coincidentally was stuffing their faces on ice cream instead of whatever shit Brigham Young brought.
I’ve been doing this for weeks and weeks now, even when I don’t need to go in there. It hasn’t gotten old yet. The staff loves it because she’ll walk up and say, “I’m here for my three o’clock appointment.” To which the staff will enjoy saying, “Sorry, but someone is already back there,” at which point she begins to look confused and says, “But, I have the three o’clock appointment!” And after a few more belligerent attempts by her to get past the staff she is forced to sit and wait her turn. She must hate me.
Anyhow, I’ve gotten to know an important staff member quite well. Her kid is battling cancer right now and I’m always asking for updates. I decide to relate my story to her. She asks if I’ve had a doctor look at it, which I haven’t because the doc I’ve used as my primary care doctor is near my old residence. It’s really too far away unless I take a half day or something, which I’d rather not do. I like to save my days for fun stuff and slip anything medically related in at the end of the workday.
She and I talk for a bit before she heads back to work and I’m sitting around waiting to see someone else (not to mention enjoying ice cream!) when she pokes her head back in and asks if I want one of the doctors there to take a quick look for me. I agree because you can’t beat free medical care!
He walks in to the exam room and I explain my problem. He starts away from the nipple and uses two fingers in a circular pattern around my tit. And this, my friends, is how my first official letter to Penthouse got started…
Alright, I’m joking.
He finds the lump and recommends going to get it checked out further, explaining that if it were him that found anything different in there he would go immediately. I’ve got good insurance and it’s probably nothing, but why not just put my mind at ease and make sure. Besides, if it is a cancerous tittie I can get going on some tit cancer demolition right away.
I agree to go get it further checked out.
Can anyone say Mammogram?
And having to get one was only part of the embarrassment because you don’t just show up and ask for one. No, your doctor writes a prescription for a mammogram. In fact, he writes this prescription on an other-worldly sized prescription pad. I swear it was on poster board. Then he utilized 142 point font when he wrote “BILATERAL MAMMOGRAM” in some sort of high glare ink that was noticeable from hundreds of feet away. I quickly folded it and shoved it deep inside my bag, noting the snickers from what seemed like an abnormally young and hot group of patients in the waiting room.
I went directly over to the imaging place, channeling the “Let’s just grind through this annoyance until it’s over” mentality. And that was precisely what I was doing until I walked into the imaging office and noticed the two hot chicks working behind the desk. Nice.
“I’m here for a mammogram. Doc figures I may have high levels of estrogen in my system. What are you doing later?”
In reality I noticed the two female patients waiting without magazines so they could focus on why I was there. There was also a third woman behind the desk with the hot chicks, who I was truly hoping would be the one to help me because she was older and homely. I handed the prescription over and noted the doctor and office which sent me over, asking if they might be able to squeeze me in (bad pun intended) before the day was over. The answer came back yes, as long as I could call my insurance company and make sure they were an allowable imaging location. So I had to use their phone, right there in front of everyone, and call to ask if it was ok that I get a mammogram at this location. Great.
I actually asked if I needed to explain what I was there for or if they would just be able to take the location and see if all procedures were covered. In my first bit of luck she told me I didn’t need to do anything more than ask if the location was a covered location in general. They were.
I was given the standard issue forms to fill out while I waited.
Am I on my period? Not right now, sista!
Am I pregnant? Not since Jimmy, our dreamy starting quarterback in high school, told me he loved me so much that we should “do it.”
Am I taking birth control? Hell no! I employ the pull-out method.
Then there were a series of other questions, all female related, that I was obviously not answering until I finally noticed the small section of “Males Only” questions that I was supposed to be filling out. Apparently it wasn’t necessary for me to answer anything else. Oops. At the bottom of the page was a picture of a woman with good sized, but beginning to droop, tits. I thought I was going to have to circle or otherwise mark where the lump was, but thankfully I didn’t have to fill that out. I handed it back in and let them know that I filled out extra like an idiot. They chuckled.
I wanted to play it cool, get chit chatty with the girls, make em laugh a little more. Show them I was above embarrassment. Instead I sat on the couch and tried to kill time without opening up a copy of their fine magazines available for use. Parenting, Homemaking, Better Home & Gardens, etc.
They call me back and a new lady is there. I’d put money on the fact that she was a lunch lady at some point in her life because you just don’t look that part for no reason. She asked me to undress, adding that she meant from the waist up. As if every dude that came in for a mammogram was itching at the chance to bone the lunch lady before, after, or during their boob exam.
She asks where the spot is, feels it, then tells me that it’s probably just muscle. (Hear that ladies?)
For those of you who haven’t had a mammogram (That would be all males excluding me, and probably most of the females I know as well) I’ll explain…
They have a machine that can lower, raise, or swivel a platform up to your particular boob level. They then cup under your tit and try (in the case of guys or small tittied women) to grab as much skin and fat as possible and place it on that plate. Then they lower another plate on top and then screw that top plate down until it hurts, before disappearing behind the wall to hit the button. You also have to hold your breath in case you are a tittie breather, which apparently is the type of breather who can move his or her boob inside of this death clamp while breathing. I’m many things, but a tittie breather I am not.
They take one picture for each breast that way and then swivel the bottom plate to a 45 degree angle and then you have to do one each at that angle. That angle hurts more because they end up pinching stuff up near your shoulder because you can’t get it out of the way. All in a days work.
So I get done and she leaves to check the pics and make sure they look alright. She comes back and tells me that everything looked good, except she wants to take one more from a particular angle. (Uh, if everything looks “good” but you want another picture you may want to explain that a little further so the hypochondriac in me doesn’t have a reason to go all doom and gloom.) After this better picture she tells me that she is recommending an ultra sound. She then jumps in and reminds me that she recommends this for everyone getting a mammogram. (This broad needs to learn how to deliver her recommendations better.)
Good news. Another hot chick for my ultrasound!
I joke about having cancer and she laughs a little, but reminds me that this is going to go well and there shouldn’t be anything to worry about. She squirts some gel on my left breast and begins using a device to rub the gel in around my boob. And this, my friends, is how my first official letter to Penthouse started.
As much as she probably wanted to, I just let her do her job and nothing more. I actually wanted to get her to print off some of the ultrasound pics so I could pull them out when soon-to-be parents started waiving theirs around. As if anyone besides them wants to spend time looking at an indiscriminate mass and try to decipher which lump is a leg and which lump is an arm.
When she finishes I ask her if anything looked odd and expect her to say (based on her original positivity about what she’d find) that everything looked fine. Instead, she says that it’s for the radiologist to decide.
I’m definitely not banging this broad on top of the ultra sound machine now. Way to go sugar tits, you just blew a golden opportunity.
Alright, so now I just have to wait. I’m preparing to fly to Washington D.C. the next night to hang out with DonkeyPuncher and Garthmeister J. I figure I may get lucky with the results before I leave but decide that I’m more likely to receive them on Monday. While driving to the airport I get the phone call from the office telling me that everything is fine and that the lump is just some sort of inflammation and it will go back down.
(How do you spell that sound you make when you’ve completed spent yourself while pleasuring your hot girlfriend with your abnormally large penis in a circus like position that takes everything out of your arms and legs and sometimes involves the use of a boomerang and now you’ve collapsed? Well, add a little extra relief to that sound and insert it here.)
Something she said, though, causes my mind to wander down that path that usually my mind is the only one strolling. It was the throwaway comment that it was just some inflammation that would go back down which did it. I remembered the thought that if too many women problems began happening to me that I’d have to turn my penis inside out into a vagina. Then, what if my tit continued to inflame and get large enough that I could reach down and get my mouth on it?
Well, then I’d never have to leave the house.
I’d already told DP and Double G (which is short for Garth and his girl) about it and when we called Speaker for a dial-a-shot I gave him a snapshot of the story and agreed to post it on Obituarium, making his weekend complete before it even started.
(Editor's note: The part that "made my weekend" was the image of Our Narrator walking into a doctor's office and saying "I'm here for a mammogram.")
And since my boob is cancer free I think I’m going to take it out for a nice weekend on the town. Looks like I’ve gotten most of my masculinity back. I may not have to head out to punch little kids and demean women after all!
DRINKS ARE ON ME AND MY CANCER FREE TITTIE!!!