the STATE of your PRO...

Look... Having to take a piss twenty-six times an hour, for someone my age... Is this like a trip to Prostate-City? Just asking for a friend... 









EXCLUSIVE EXTRACT FROM TWELVE STEP CHARLIE.

Does your anaesthesiologist have a sense of humour?
     That could be an advertisement. Or a billboard you see every day on your way to work.
    Once I came to terms with the fact that—and I quote—I had something out of the ordinary growing and multiplying on my penis,  I wanted it gone. It’s nice to have guests over, but when they start annoying me, don’t pick up after themselves and leave a bloody mess for me to clean, I’m very sorry, but you just have to leave.
    So I wanted these suspicious looking moles—or whatever the hell else you want to call them—removed from my penis. Because, if Melanoma—and doesn’t that sound exactly like that bitch from Sleeping Beauty, or at least her secluded, hidden sister or something; I can add that chapter to that book: “This is our daughter, Maleficent. This is our other daughter, Melanoma.” I bet they will grow up as fine, God-fearing girls!—is recognized and treated early, it is almost always curable. My kind of that’s-the-way-I-want-it.
  But if it is not, the cancer can advance and spread to other parts of the body, where it becomes hard to treat and can be fatal. While it is not the most common of the skin-cancers, it causes the most deaths. And the death toll of Melanoma is significantly larger among men. I know, I know. We don’t spend enough time taking care of our skins. But after you’ve shaven your face, there’s not a lot of time left in that department. Plus: we have all this extra hair—not all of us, I know, but still—growing all over our bodies. Sometimes a man’s skin is not even visible anymore. Who knows what simmers under that thick layer of rigid hair. I mean, to this day, there are still unknown species discovered in Amazonia.
    The first shocker on the day of the surgery—as if the whole situation wasn’t shocking enough already—was the entire take off your clothes thing.
     I had to strip from the waist down. It wasn’t the first time and it surely won’t be the last. It was all a bit like how women face the smear test, I guess. It’s not hugely terrible to pull down the pants, but also not all together a welcome experience. You do it in order of science and well-being. But a small amputation in certain regions of the brain—right there and then—would be stimulating at that point.
   Or is that just me?
    I say: it’s not the first time and it surely won’t be the last time. Allow me to elaborate on that.
    It wasn’t the first time, because—well, hello!—there was this Hi-remember-me-we-used-to-hang-out-about-six-months-ago-but-now-I-sorry-have-an-STD!-thing. Plus: I had a vasectomy a couple of years ago. I jokingly now call it The Testicular Vivisection.
     It kind of had me in the same position—on my back, connected to some bleeping machine (“Yes, Sir, this is a monitored operation”), stripped from the waist down, embarrassed like hell. And then the yanking and pulling on those ejaculatory ducts in order to have them snipped. So nothing containing any life comes through—hence the Vivisection.
    As said: it won’t be the last time in a similar situation either, because, men of a certain age will eventually all get that exclusive invitation to the Club Med of anything medical, a bodily Aspen, if you will: The Prostate Exam! Having a wonderful time! Wish you were here!
    And when your tour-operator puts in abridgments like DRE— please, join me and the rest of my crew on the sundeck, where you can enjoy a full day of entertainment with miniature golf, flight simulators, cocktails at noon, two Olympic sized pools and a spontaneous DRE-check!—don’t be bloody fooled over the word digital—since DRE stands for Digital Rectal Exam—because in this case digital has none to do with computers, apps and logging in to Facebook. Digital is digit and therefor, in this case, digit is overweight, voluptuous, motherfucking finger. Having the prostate examined is nothing more—and surely no less—than  finger-up-the-butt time. With no foreplay. Unless you have a good lawyer.
    However, only parts of that situation are similar. For one, you won’t be lying on your back to have the prostate examined. Yet, the stripping deal and the humiliation are still very much present in the room.
    Still, once the invitation is there, it’s hard to resist. You get to meet all other men of your age who happen to be invited to this Cruise-Once-In-An-Anal-Life-Time. It’s better than the movies and the coffee is always free, said Marla Singer. And let me tell you: The First Rule Of Prostate Club, Is That We Don’t Talk About Prostate Club.
    You just hang out on the sundeck, with your other—well—inmates.  Do a little miniature golfing and the likes. Until it’s time for Gin And Tonics.
    Can you imagine the conversations going on under the strict supervision of Ol’ Captain Ahab? I can. I can almost immediately see them, standing at the bar, Gin-Tonic in the hand. Like you see men do on an average Friday evening.
    - How was your day?
    - I had a sudden DRE. Someone bailed out.
    - How was it?
    - Well… I’ve had better. I know this hooker in downtown Korea Town who…
    - How was the doctor, I mean?
    - Unfortunately, huge…
    - How do you mean?
    - Well, you know those photos of Michael Fassbender in the nude, right?
    - Yeah…?
    - Ever noticed his penis?
    - Yeah… well… it’s hard to miss, right? I mean, his birthday is April second. His penis has its birthday April third. It’s the fucking truth, man. He makes us all look Chinese.
    - Right. So, the doctor’s finger is a bit like Michael Fassbender’s penis.
    - The Flaccid Fassbender?
    - Oh, God, yeah! You know how it takes some people, like, forever to enter a room? The experience was a bit like that.
    Until they all run out of Gin-Tonics and are forced to sit on their Hello-You’ve-Just-Been-Punk’d-By-The-Fassbender-Look-Very-Much-A-Likes!-asses. Bring in the Morphine-Drip-Ins!
    You might see the funny slant of it now. Until you get drafted. Until it’s your time for Jury Duty. Until it’s your time to face the Full-Moon-Big-Hole Cruise of Existence. Either way: you’re fucked!
    Unless, of course, you’re Michael Fassbender’s roommate and you’ve been through that size before, and also, through the thick mist of time, have come accustomed to those undeniable measurements. Although I don’t think she is in the lucky/unlucky possession of a prostate. But I don’t know her that well, so I could be mistaking.
    And think of all the horror that could happen to your prostate. I mean, if you add it all up, Stephen King could write his scariest novel about it. On the other hand, almost every novel Stephen King has written has some kind of happy ending—the non-sexual variety of those words, mind you—the same, however, cannot be said for the lives of many, many unlucky prostates.
    And why? No one knows. I mean, it’s not that the prostate is directly exposed to too many cigarettes or whoops-I’m-an-alcoholic kind of consumption of one too many Cosmopolitans. Come to think of it: that’s a woman’s drink. The female version of a Slammer, if you will.
    Nor does it get a lot of sunshine. It’s not like I suddenly develop cancer, because I had my prostate exposed to too much ultraviolet radiation. A keep-it-in-the-pants kind of situation.
    All it does—and all it will ever do—is make some—not even all of it—of the fluid that nourishes and protects sperm cells in the semen.  Call it a day-job.
    However, think of all the problems it can cause. All by itself. All by it itty-bitty, little self. The size of a walnut, kids!
     Obviously, there’s weak urine stream, difficulty initiating urination, stopping and starting during urination; urinating frequently, especially at night, pain or burning with urination. Blood in the urine and semen. Pain in the hips, pelvis, spine or upper legs or discomfort during ejaculation.
    Isn’t it more fun to go into labor? At least the thing that causes all that pain isn’t as small as a wee walnut. At least the child that is ultimately removed from you, is something of a comfort—when raised well, that is. And then there’s that sudden rush of adrenaline that makes you magically forget all of that child-birth-pain. There has never been a doctor—Fassbender-sized or not—who examined a prostate and administered a shot of adrenaline straight into the heart of the person who—basically against his will—took the finger-up-the-butt.
     Well, I’m gonna stick my finger down there a bit, stir it up a bit, you might feel a little pressure and a slight blow of pain, but I’m gonna give you a shot of adrenaline afterwards. You know, to round off the meal.
    I bet you don’t even get a dry run version of it. I bet you’ll never hear your physician say: well, Sir, before we go any further, let’s just go through the motion first. You’ve been here before? How’s the kids? Do you still have that Belladonna growing in the back yard? By the way, have you planned your vacation yet? Where off to this year?
    I bet it’s all just clinical and cynical. Septic. It all smells like a cheap, fake perfume. A knock off Gaultier scent. Brewed with ether and toxic waste.


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