So I'm there in this very sterile, clinical setting and a very sterile, clinical lady asks me to strip bare ass and put on a robe, open side forward. I do. She leads me into a room with an ultrasound machine and tells me to lie down, place this rolled up towel between my legs and rest my nuts on it. Then I'm to align my penis with true north (to illustrate, she moves her hands up from her crotchular area to just about mid-chest which makes me feel instantly emasculated by her husband or whatever Mandingo warrior standard she apparently holds men to) and drape this open towel over it. I feel like asking for a smaller towel. Whatever, ba da boom, done.
Not that I have porn-star body confidence or anything, but -- her inevitable disappointment in my penis notwithstanding -- my general frame of mind was like, "Yeah, whatever." I've had a vasectomy and frankly, if you're not charging at my sack with a scalpel and an R. Lee Ermey-style war face, then you're nowhere near the baddest hombre my undercarriage has ever encountered, m'kay?
In fact, the only thing even remotely surreal about the entire scene is the music that's playing: a radio tuned to some inane secretary-rock station. As Nurse Betty is greasing and poking, I'm marveling at the aproposity of the great cosmic jukebox's selections. Following is -- without exaggeration or edit -- the playlist.
First up, "I hope you know it's personal ...". Kinda sad that Betty wasn't in the room while this one was playing as I would have loved the chance to sing this to her.
Next, Brick House. "... mighty, mightay, just lettin' it all hang out ...".
Next, The Theme From Shaft. Thinking about peeking at Betty to see if she's wistfully imagining the Old Spice guy, mouthing the line "I'm on a horse."
Next, Tom Petty's Free Falling which to me sounds like Free Balling so I sing those words out loud which turns out to be a big mistake because Nurse Betty starts to laugh and pushes the ultrasound wand ever so firmly into my aching nads.
Lastly, U2's Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For.
Yeah, that's what she said.
Ethan was originally scheduled for his final follow-up exam tomorrow, but Ronnie Bean called to reschedule. We're now set for April 23. Turning it into a long weekend with lots of swimming (assuming we get the green light) and maybe a side trip to Colonial Williamsburg. Because really, what 6-year-old boy doesn't just lie awake at night just dreaming of how cool it would be to live without air conditioning or Wii. We obviously would be very grateful if you'd care to share your recommendations for kid-friendly activities in that area.
Speaking of songs, I heard Cat Stevens' Wild World on the ride home (scanning the dial, trying to scrub the scrotum-centric playlist from my mind). I once had a very animated discussion with a friend who protests Cat Stevens because he changed his name to Yusuf Islam and that's a terrorist name. And I'm all like, "Dude, his name was CAT. In my book that's all the fucking reason you need to change your name."
Same guy once remarked about a girl we both knew that she had nice quids. Dumbass that I am, I couldn't let it go and asked, "Quids? What the fuck are quids?"
Him: "It's Latin for tits."
Me: "No it's not."
Him: "Sure, quid pro quo is Latin for tit for tat, right? Maybe it's 'quo' that's Latin for tits. But quids sounds better. I'm pretty sure I'm right."
Do you SEE what I've had to deal with in my lifetime? To some degree, all of life just seems to be about ball pain.
"Who's the black private dick that's a sex machine to all the chicks?" -- Isaac Hayes