Testicular Examination.

February 14, 2012

I shouldn’t be writing this post. I’ve been musing undecidedly over whether to give a written birth to it from thought, mainly due to the explicitly personal nature of it – but I suppose that is what writing is all about.

For a few weeks now, one of my balls has been troubling me. When I say ‘balls’, yes, I mean testicles. And when I say ‘troubling’ me, I mean killing me.

I feel that now I’ve got that dreaded ‘T’ word out of the way, I can write through the rest of this post. The pain started a few weeks back. A dull ache – nothing to arouse too much concern. Having had an operation as a child on the very same ball, after a sporting accident, I did begin to wonder if something had gone balls up and left me in a sticky situation.

Nah. It’ll pass.

Men can’t bear the thought of something being wrong with their testicles. Impossible! They think. Men are far too advanced in convincing themselves that nothing’s wrong down there – even when reduced to bow-legged clamouring and tentative hot-stepping in agony from the things. It’ll pass. Like many men worldwide I shared this thought. And it did, temporarily.

However, this morning I woke up in quite a state of discomfort. There it goes again, yelling at me to go to the doctor. Screaming to be examined. It was as if there was a little chick stored within my ovoid jewel. It was prodding its wretched beak through – hatching. New life! This is a good thing, I shouldn’t bother the doctor with such an exploit! I can give the chick a home-birth! Quick, someone run me a hot bath! We’ll make it a water birth! And someone had better ring the vicar, for we’ll be needing a Christening!

Well, I had just about exhausted my reasonings to not pay the doc a visit.

And there it was, no more hesitation. Emergency appointment. To the doc’s!

Waiting rooms are just about the most unsettling places on the planet. Especially at the doctors – everything is twice as bad when you’ve got an achy ellipsoid. Upon entering the waiting room, the several sets of agony bound eyes scattered about the room inevitably focus themselves upon you, weighing you up, calculating… The folks do not just glance at you, as one normally would, they bore through you, gazing…as though desperately trying to rid themselves of their own sickness by telepathically imparting it onto someone else.

I checked in, and awaited the dreaded summoning via the intercom. Easy to get sucked into psychological digressions, when waiting. Within five minutes I had imaginarily diagnosed the entire room of indisposed souls with my own farfetched afflictions. Everyone had been attributed with a variety of conditions, infirmities and ailments – ranging from trench foot to testicular atrophy. Well, someone had to be in a despairingly similar boat as me…Otherwise it just wouldn’t have been fair!

It was whilst waiting, in this purpose built room for such a task, that I realised the tragic, almost warped nature of my appointment. Why! Oh, why would I book an appointment for a testicular examination of the 14th of February?!

Valentines.

The doc would be sure to think of me as nothing more than a lecherous bastard! Hellbent on having my lonely balls fondled on this worldwide day of romance! It could’ve waited – a day would’ve done it! I was about to up my mistaken sticks and flee decrepitly for the automatic doors, when my name was lugubriously voiced on the intercom.

Shit!

I couldn’t help but shiftily enter the surgery door, taking a seat timidly in the lair of the general practitioner. Man feels deceptively articulate when proposed with a doctor and a problem. It seems the mahogany of desks sparks some deeply buried pretend insight, in us all. There is an inherent desire to deliver the extent of ones symptoms with a profusion of effective descriptors; succinctly, with velocity.

“What seems to be the problem?” The doc began in a welcoming tone. He was good, practiced, professional. He must have said that a good ten thousand times. Especially judging by his missing hair and furrowed brow – he was aged with routine.

“Well…I have a problem…Down in West Egg! And it’s nothing to do with Gatsby’s death!” I spouted half-nonsensically.

His scientific mind dismissed the reference without recognition, and asked me to explain the issue in actual terms. I surrendered to his demands, and told of my problems. I did not think of the fact it happened to be Valentines day, as I illustrated with excruciating detail, the testicular opulence of my predicament. It was only when my trousers were slumped about my ankles and the doctor was gently exploring my tender oval, that I decided to be daring, and make a joke of the coincidence.

“Not what I had in mind for Valentines!” I had broken the silence. The man paused, seemingly unimpressed, before he examined me through his spectacled eyes.

“Please do not talk during my examination, I wouldn’t like to… crush anything.” He retorted in a short tone.

That was it, the doctor had branded me as perverse – a twisted romantic, with a penchant for particularly intimate testicular inspection! I could’ve commandeered his stethoscope and plugged it right into his thoughts…”Yeah, right. This is everything you had in mind for Valentines. You sick bastard. You sick gay bastard.”

I thought I should be cautious at this point, as it is massively unnatural for one man to trust another so far enough as to let him fondle with his own balls. The doc may’ve just turned at an instance, and right, that’s it! A clenched palm, followed by howls…impotent yelps echoing round the whole of England!

Thankfully, the doctor had mercy on my balls. He even went as far as telling me that everything was fine! And that any pain would be sure to pass soon. I thought of this as slightly strange, and that possibly he was duping me with his reassurances, condemning me to genital deterioration interminably! I came close to asking for a second inspection, a double check, an extra treat! But no – then he would’ve really mistaken me… At the thought of his misleading me, I was sure of it – it must be cancer! No two ways about it – he wanted me dead! Could I blame him? Who in their right mind gets their balls examined on Valentines day?

Written by Robotic Rhetoric Posted in blog, Books, Creative Writing, Dystopia, Entertainment, Facebook, Funny, Health, Humor, Humour, Literature, Musings, Philosophy, Religion, Satire, Scatology, Scriptwriting, Short Story, Social Media, Swearing, Thoughts, TV, Uncategorized, Video Games, Writing Tagged with and stuff, balls, blog, clamouring, comedy, creative writing, doctors, dull ache, emergency appointment, england, entertainment, facebook, gathering, GP, humor, humour, imagery, joke, literature, little chick, musings, observation, photography, poem, problems, rhetoric, robotic, satire, scrotum, short, short story, silly., spelling, sticky situation, story, stuff, stupid, testicles, thought, thoughts, water birth, words, writing