In the big book of the DHMF, (Doghouse Manifesto) in the TRUTH & CONSEQUENCES– chapters, under the subheading of HESITATION & LOSS: A STUDY IN PARALLELS-rule # 53-86 states; “A well crafted lie will have few details, no dates or specific places and will leave the lie-ee with even fewer questions and absolutely no facts.” If you read further you will find that “… he who hesitates is lost. This includes but is not limited to clearing your throat, avoiding eye contact, rolling your eyes, looking down, left or right, shifting back and forth on your feet or saying ‘uhm’ more than once in a sentence.”
I’ll bet you’re wondering why I’m telling you this?
I got caught in a lie and it wasn’t the lie itself that gave me away; she asked me a question and I just couldn’t react fast enough to tell her what she wanted to hear without hemming and hawing, stammering, stuttering, and she knew before I ever got the words out, that I was lying my ass off.
“When was your last physical?” She asked me.
“I uh, uhm, well I, that thing last, (damn!) I think, uh, maybe, I uhm…”
“Save it. I made an appointment for you. Next Tuesday. Shower, shave, change your clothes- no shorts- brush your teeth, and don’t be late.” (#$%@)
Like most men, I hate going to the Doctor. It’s nothing personal against the Doctor, or the general practice of medicine, it’s just that, well, for men anyway, it puts us in distinct and physically compromising positions that we would really rather not even think about-…
Right about here is where my wife would interrupt and start blathering on about her Gynecologist, and that table with the weird torture looking leg thingy’s, and something called a Speculum, (I don’t even want to know what that is!) and if this was her column, we would all sit patiently through her discourse and nod empathetically while we noshed on cucumber sandwiches…
Gee- I kind of lost track of where we were after, ‘sandwhich…’
See, my Doctor is a woman. I can hear you laughing out there. Trust me, that’s not the joke. Well, it is, kind of, on me I guess, but you can’t necessarily determine gender from a name in an insurance booklet, and, once you make a choice of a Primary Physician, it takes an act of congress or God to change it, and even those two might not get it done.
Rule # B 26c-j of the DHMF, (Doghouse Manifesto) Chapter 2 of the section, HOW BAD, BAD CAN GET WHEN IT ALL GOES BAD– is one you will all recognize as part of Murphy’s Law, and it reads, “If it can go wrong it will and the extent of the wrong will be in direct proportion to how embarrassing or painful it will be, or both.” And, it will be preceded by phrases such as, “Bend over and cough,” “Turn your head and giggle,” and the ever popular, “Drop ‘em & Spread ‘em!” like we were two characters in an unbelievably bad prison movie! Believe me, nothing good is ever going to happen to you in the Doctor’s office after any one of those sentences.
And, I have to tell you, the goop that Mrs. Doctor uses to lube her latex clad fingers to check the various nether regions of my anatomy is such that NASA could use it as a super lubricant on the Space Shuttle. Man, after a check up, I’m good on grease and oil for a thousand miles or thirty days, whichever comes first, because nothing, not even pumice and tar & turpentine can get that stuff off!
I remember the first prostate exam Mrs. Doctor performed…
“There, now, that wasn’t so bad was it?” She chirped.
I grimaced. I ground my teeth. I squinted, pinched the bridge of my nose and tried to pretend she wasn’t there and hadn’t just stuck her fingers up my old address…
“Oh, hell no, not if we were in the backseat of my car and I was wearing your panties for a hat!” I grumbled.
She didn’t think it was funny- yeah, well, neither did I but somehow, she didn’t quite get that.
My only consolation is that while I’m up on the lube rack next Tuesday in Mrs. Doctor’s office, Eightball is going to have his anal glands expressed at Petco by the big tattoo chick with one eyebrow and who needs a shave, don’t ask…