 |
About 3-4 years ago, I noticed that my lad, the meat part of my meat and two veg arrangement, young master Dawes was not himself. He had developed lumps. If you find yourself mentioning your little friend, and 'lumps' in the same sentance, you seldom look upon it as an edifying experience.
So I had to visit the doctor. He had a look. It was horrible. There is no nice way to get your lad out for a stranger to look at. Unless I have had a lot of ale and am in the presence of a rugby team, in which case it is remarkably difficult to keep it hidden away. but that's another story for another day. It involves a bus with a marked window, and surprisingly bashful londoner.
But I digress. I was in the doctor's surgery and Dr White has my chap in his hand, and is prodding at the lumps. He called them nodules, which I rather preferred to lumps. Often medical terms are infinitely worse than common words - see lesions - but in this case I definitely would have chosen nodules over lumps any day.
He sent me to the hospital, to have it chopped. Biopsy as a word has bad connotations. They offered to put me under a general anasthetic, but I didn't trust the uruguayan doctor. Its not his race that caused me to distrust him, he was a rugby player, and being one myself, I knew instantly that I wasn't going near my Johnson (johnson?) with a blade unless I could keep an eye on him.
I took the option of a local anasthetic, and regretted it the moment needle and meat made aquaintance with each other. I should be proud that they had to put a lot more anasthetic in than they were expecting, but to be honest, by injection 6 I was wishing I was hung like a shetland rabbit. (a small shout out to jonno there, you know who you are).
They took a healthy slice of blue veined steak, and sent it away for analysis. I had to sit in a bed with some shockingly poor tailoring on my shaft, and a sense of impending doom as the anasthetic slowly wore off. I was eventually allowed to go home, with an array of unpleasant looking dressings which were there to mop up any seepage. Nice.
It turned out my twat hammer may have TB. God only knows what the hell they are getting at. How only one part of me, and one that doesn't mix with the poor unclean and unhealthy hordes of the working class could end up in that condition is beyond me.
It wasn't properly diagnosed though. They wanted a number of samples of my whizz, and I am a phenominally lazy and poorly organised man. I simply never got around to popping into the clinic with 4 labelled bottles of my own piss.
A word of warning then to the ladies. Due to some ancient disease that affected the poor in the days of scurvy, my little lad has acquired extra girth. I suggest you only offer to give it a home if you can really handle it.
2:49 PM
Powered by  | | English | | Albanian | | Arabic | | Bulgarian | | Catalan | | Chinese | | Croatian | | Czech | | Danish | | Dutch | | Estonian | | Filipino | | Finnish | | French | | Galician | | German | | Greek | | Hebrew | | Hindi | | Hungarian | | Indonesian | | Italian | | Japanese | | Korean | | Latvian | | Lithuanian | | Maltese | | Norwegian | | Polish | | Portuguese | | Romanian | | Russian | | Serbian | | Slovak | | Slovenian | | Spanish | | Swedish | | Thai | | Turkish | | Ukrainian | | Vietnamese |
|