Dr Hook is evil.
I have battled him in my dreams. Every time I’ve received a kick to the nether regions, he hovers, fingers dancing with glee. When I inadvertently took a badminton racquet to the unmentionables in my teen years, he was laughing. Cold, hard, calculating.
Today is our final battle.
Fear not for me for I have made peace with what it about to transpire. I will ask him, again, why a Penis doctor has an eye chart. I will watch as he gives me the face…again. Round 1 will be me.
He will ask me to drop my pants…and he will see that not only did I shave the spot of incision, but he will see that I shaved EVERYWHERE just to be on the safe side. Hehe, Round 2 will also be mine.
I am heading toward a decision victory.
Then the stirrups will come out. The first two rounds are a distant memory. Round 3 – Doctor Hook.
Like in a bad movie, I will realize that innocuous pill he gave me was…gasp…a sedative. I will fight to leave that office, but everything will seem outrageously funny and I will willingly jump into the stirrups…accompanied with many jokes about how I’m going to be giving birth out my butt. Round 4 could be called either way.
Then, the shiny tray is wheeled next to me by a nurse. Even though she’s 85 years old, I still flirt with her in my compromised position. I am scoring points with all judges. Victory shall be mine.
Dr Hook hits play on the CD player. The Crying Game. I realize now this has all been a ruse. Dr Hook is a master. He was playing me for a fool. And I fool I was.
The cloth is removed from the tray. Wow, that’s a long needle. Really long. And forceps. And hey, a scalpel. That’s odd, I thought this was supposed to be a No-Scalpel Vasectomy.
Well played, Dr Hook. Well played. This will not go to the judge’s cards. He will finish me before the scheduled 12 rounds.
I will not describe to you, fair reader, the horror that I will face. There will be gore, and crying (oh, how there will be crying).
Then, like a true sadist, he will patch the wound and send me back into the world.
Shame.
Except everything will be different. I belonged to the Old Boys Club. I played golf every other day. I had several mistresses. I used to make fun of gays, and scheme of how I could ensure women remained, well, women. My favourite sport was arm wrestling.
I liked to talk about war. I loved cigars, and big cars, and I used to humiliate minorities for sport.
Now, I will become one of them. A liberal.
I will become a metro-sexual.
I will have nice (semi-feminine) shoes. I will declare ‘Oh my god, I love this song’ when ABBA comes on the radio. And I shall never go another day without moisturizing (my skin will be oh so supple).
My favourite sport: Cricket.
My favourite food: Are you kidding me, that’ll go straight to my hips.
My favourite movie: Any movie that Kari wants to watch
My favourite UFC Fighter: Wow, that’s violent.
Good-bye, sweet friends.
For when you see me next, I shall be an empty shell of my old self. While I will be laughing, and flirting, and speaking with my hands, deep inside I will be screaming…and no one will hear my cries.
I miss my old friend already.
Dr. Hook indeed! Brave, silly man, so you bought the bit about it being easier on men than women, did you? That’s one of our better urban myths, as far as I’m concerned.
Oh well, walk softly for a few days, and I’m sure your outlook will change. More than likely back to the cigar chomping, minority bashing pseudo neo conservative we all know so well. (Just kidding about the last bit. I’m trying to make you feel better. It NEVER comes back.) I’ll make sure I have a few ABBA CD’s around when you visit, just so you have music to listen to. Anything for my friends, after all….
Now, you’re not going to fit in with the hockey guys
Also, duely noted that in your previous “manly man” life, you noted hitting yourself in the ding-ding with a badminton racket I’m confused were you manly before or after the surgery?