Sex, but not the good kind

I woke up with a headache this morning, then made it worse by working on my NiP for four hours. I’m deep in editing hell (fixing plot holes, setting up deus so they ain’t ex machina in the last fifty pages, that sort of thing). Fortunately, the manuscript will, by tomorrow afternoon, be up to snuff.

No, that does not mean I’m sending it out. It means I’m willing to print it out so I can begin my hard copy edit. Yippee!

Bottom line, I had serious literary brain freeze a moment ago trying to come up with a topic for today’s blog. My best idea was to take the top ten search topics at Technorati and use them in my own version of the Aristrocrats Joke*. The trouble with that idea is (1) I really don’t want to exploit Cindy Sheehan, and (2) the Aristrocrats Joke is filthy enough that I would surely alienate half my readership or more. (I think I’d be down to Maureen and Gabriele ;o)

Instead, I asked Karen, “What old story of mine haven’t I told yet?”

Without one second’s pause: “Male pelvic exams in medical school.”

God I love her.

If you’re in the mood for edification, Karen will soon be posting the first installment of her capsule history of Afghanistan.

Has everyone left who is going to leave? Good. I’m assuming the rest of you want to hear about the teaching of male pelvic exams to naive medical students.

First, let me assure you that we did not practice on one another. Heavens, no. We’d never be able to look at each other afterwards. Homophobia is rampant among male medical students, as my tale of Fred has previously demonstrated.

Instead, the school enlisted the assistance of a corps of seasoned men, doubtless gathered by trolling Polk Street with a bullhorn. Heterosexuals do not volunteer for this job. Undoubtedly, this boosted the anxiety of Fred and a few of my other friends, but they sucked it up (so to speak). Like other medical students, they well understood the meaning of the phrase “requirement for graduation.”

We divided up into mixed-sex groups of four and met privately with our volunteers in small classrooms. One by one, we pulled on our gloves and practiced palpating our volunteer’s penis and testicles. (“That’s my epididymis. That’s normal. If you feel any other bumps down there, that would be bad.”) We each finished our round-the-world journey with a visit to Mr. Prostate. Our volunteer was great; Fred Rogers was never this patient.

Afterwards, we compared notes. Fierce howling and gnashing of teeth from Fred’s group told me that something special had happened there. I approached and heard the story retold for everyone’s benefit.

“He . . .”

“Yes?”

“He . . .”

“Go on!”

“He said . . . he said, ‘Oh, my. Look at that. I have a little drip.'”

Yes, we all recovered from the trauma.

D.

*If you simply must here a version of this joke, follow the link, and download the South Park version. As I understand it, this is one of the least offensive versions of the joke, but you will still be offended. You’ve been warned.