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.”