The great consolation
for someone with a twisted sense of humor like my own is that, even while large
portions of the populace don’t get my jokes, or, in many cases, don’t even
realize I’ve made one, I can nearly always count on myself for a lovely chuckle,
especially after having enjoyed a wee pipeful of medical marijuana. I will here
recount a memory that made me burst into laughter last night in the bath.
Some years ago, I had
some sort of problem with Little Elvis, as I call my cock, because if it was
good enough for The King of Rock and Roll, it’s good enough for me.. At the
urging of my then girlfriend Little Rumso, I consulted a urologist at Kaiser Permanente in
San Francisco. He was apparently a graduate of the Great Healer school of medicine,
that which teaches that the physician, exuding hauteur and self-delight, must
smirk censoriously whenever a patient attempts a self-diagnosis.
While he was examining
the mighty appendage, I shared Girlfriend’s assessment of the problem (the
specifics of which I honestly can’t recall). He smirked censoriously and
said, “Well, I suspect I’ve seen a great many more penises than your girlfriend
has.”
“You, doctor,” I said, “have obviously never met my girlfriend.”
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