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What Exactly Do You Mean, ‘What’s Up, Doc?’

I’ve got a doctor’s appointment coming up this week. There’s going to be check-upping, and blood-taking, and blood pressure-measuring. There may well be cup-peeing, and there’s a fair chance of coughing-during-a-crotch-cupping. I can only hope that this time, that kind of shit starts after I get into the doctor’s office. Those old ladies waiting for their meds are relentless, man.

In any case, it could be worse. I’m still young enough that I don’t have to go through the discomfort and squeamishness of a prostate-fondling. At least, not unless my primary physician is willing to buy me dinner and take me out on the town first.

(Hey, I’m not made of stone, people. You get a doctor spending cash to feed you, you’ve gotta put out, right? Somebody back me up here.

Um, yeah. Pun unintended on ‘back me up’, all right? Let’s just forget my prostate ever came up, okay?)

Anyway, I have a feeling this isn’t going to be a particularly pleasant visit with the ol’ doc. I’ve been a bad boy lately — lots of work, little exercise, and way bad eating habits. Perhaps not the worst eating habits in the world — I’m not popping pork rinds, or scarfing chicken wings for lunch every day. You won’t find me snorting burrito squeezings off a hooker’s back anytime soon. So it could be worse.

(And come to think of it, is a hooker’s back worse than a hooker’s front, nutritionally speaking? Maybe it’s dependent on just how far up or down you go on the front or back; it seems like you could get into different sorts of gastronomic difficulty, depending on where exactly you decided to commence your snorting. And, of course, how hard you chose to nostril-suck those squeezings.

It turns out to be very complicated, when you take a good, hard look at it. It’s a wonder anything ever gets snorted off hookers at all, really. I suddenly have a new respect for rock star coke fiends.)

But the point is, I’ve not been eating well lately. There’s been too much pizza, too much takeout food, and too much sugary crap. My blood’s gonna be just swimming with the kind of crud that gets very stern looks from health professionals. Very stern looks, indeed. Maybe even an extra crotch-cupping. And believe me, with my doc, that is not a good thing. Dude looks like Perry Mason with a bushier ‘stache. It’s not cool.

That wasn’t always the case, though.

(Well, wait a second. As far as I can say, it is always the case that this guy has looked like an overstuffed, portly porn star. That’s the only look he’s had in the two-plus years that I’ve known him, so maybe it’s permanent. For all I know, he came squirting out of the womb that way. But that’s not what I meant.)

What I mean is that it wasn’t always the case that I had a guy like this for a doctor. He’s my most recent, but not my only, physician. I even had a woman for a doctor once, several years ago — now that was an experience.

She wasn’t ‘gorgeous’, per se, but she wasn’t a potbellied John Holmes lookalike, either. Not by any means; in fact, she was quite attractive, which is just about the most unfortunate kind of doc a guy can have, provided he doesn’t live in some sort of alternate reality bizarro ‘Penthouse Letters’ world. And trust me, folks — a lot of strange things happen in my life, but a wild night of monkey lovin’ with a hot doctor and a jar of tongue depressors is not in my cards. I’m frankly not even sure I have cards.

Anyway, I only had one checkup from my lady physician, but it was pretty nervewracking. Not because of my diet or workout habits at the time — frankly, they were a helluva lot worse then, but I was too young to be worried about such trivial matters as personal health or life expectancy. Rather, I spent the entire first twenty minutes of the checkup with a single thought running through my head:

‘When she tells me to cough, don’t get excited. When she tells me to cough, don’t get excited. When she tells me to cough, don’t get — ‘

What’s that, doctor? Drop my pants and cough? Um… okay. Any chance you could morph yourself into a bored, matronly old type for a minute? No? All right, fine — grab away, lady. Mi saco es su saco, if you know where I’m coming from. And if you don’t… well, you’re about to. I just hope those hands are warm.

In the end (pun intended this time), the exam went just fine. I coughed as requested, and that was the end of it. No health problems, no extracurricular jiggling, and — perhaps most importantly — no standing at attention, down there, during the whole procedure. And that’s just peachy. These healthcare professionals can forgive a lot of nonsense from their patients, but I’m thinking that a poke in the eye with Captain Happy is not going to go over big. That’s all I’m saying.

All right, I forget what the hell my point was. I’m sure it had something to do with my impending doctor’s appointment, and how I’m not looking forward to being lectured about the crap I’m eating. Or having my goodies grabbed, even if it is in the name of medicine. I dunno — maybe I can clean up my act — and my diet — in the few days I have left. Erase the effects of weeks of bad habits in a few short days? Yeah, probably not. I suppose I’ll just have to go in there and take my medicine like a man. Dammit!

Hell, the least I can do is practice my coughing. No point in going into my checkup completely unprepared, right?