Friday, November 21, 2008

Todd the Cyst

I have a confession. At one time in my life, I had a cyst on my azz named "Todd". It all began with some swelling next to my tailbone, which soon blossomed into some kind of H3llish lump the size of a grape along side my butcrack. Driving into work one morning, the pain got to be too much and I decided to go and see a doctor. It was also a good excuse to get out of the office for a few hours.

I don't have a steady relationship with any one doctor - I've never seen the point. It's not like they're going to remember me anyway. So I've always been kind of a clinical trollop, traipsing through doctor offices all over the midwest. This time was no different - I carefully selected my physician by Googling the closest clinic and calling for an appointment. Thankfully, I was able to get in right away, and within 45 minutes I was showing my lily white azz to a total stranger.

After thoughtfully taking a 2-second glance at my crack, the Doctor concluded that I had a pilonidal cyst (which he proudly announced to be "a textbook example", as if this were something that I had carefully cultivated like some kind of azzhole cyst topiary). He explained that the cysts are caused when a bed of hair folicles becomes ingrown and infected and they are fairly common in men with hairy azzes. Thanks, Doc, you fcking hearless pr1ck. I appreciate you throwing that in there for my plummeting self esteem.

Unfortunately, while he we very adept at crushing my feelings of self-worth, this particuar physician was deficient in actually being able to practice useful medicine. So he bundled up both my cyst and I and sent us on to a specialist about 20 minutes away. And here's where it starts to get weird.

All my life, I've technically been a female. This means that the concept of a procto table has never even entered into the realm of possibilities. So I innocently walked into this office, not suspecting a thing, even when the Doctor had me kneel next to the examining table instead of laying on it like I was used to. The men reading this are already familiar with what I'm going to explain next. Ladies, I am not fcking kidding you here, this particular type of table pivots forward and suddenly your azz is hoisted skyward until you are in the perfect position to share an intimate moment in prison. I will also note that this is a poor time to realize that you need to use the restroom.

So there I was, draped over a procto table with my azz in the air, contemplating my new-found respect for all men over 40. The Doctor informed me that he would be numbing the area, then "lancing it to release the pressure". The proceedure itself is mostly a blurr, mainly because I may have passed out when the Doctor gave me a shot of anasthesia in the azz. However, I did come to in time to realize that the crackling sound I was hearing from behind me was the sound of my own buttflesh being seared like a palid T-bone on a white-hot grill. My body, in an attempt to seize this opportunity for a complete coup, commanded every pore to simultaneously dump their contents all over the table. I'm not kidding, I soaked through my shirt in a matter of seconds while I lay there gasping like a carnival goldfish.

(to be continued)