Throwing Poo

Last week I went to the urologist because there simply aren't enough people who can tell me that I don't have cancer.  Also, since Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. and I might be thinking about having kids in the near future, I wanted to make sure that the fruit of my loins had not spoiled.  Plus, over the past few weeks, I've kind of developed a fondness for paying medical professionals to fondle my junk.

Being the good patient that I am, I arrived at the urologist's office ten minutes early and was immediately handed a stack of forms representing all manner of dense contractual obligations.  Normally, I do not sign anything without reading it, but it honestly would have taken me several hours to fully digest all this material.  So, like most people, I just signed it, effectively relieving myself of any actionable recourse when the video of my unwrapped package shows up on GrowersNotShow'ers.com.  

After I turned in my papers, I took a seat and began scrutinizing the other people in the waiting room.  Whenever I go to the doctor, I always wonder why the other people are there.  Is he dying?  Is she a hypochondriac?  Does he have a Ken doll stuck in his rectum?  I look for clues and try to deduce their diagnosis, as well as assess any risk they might pose to me.  I also like to drop clues as to why I am there, or at least why I want them to think I'm there.  It's a fun way to pass the time.

However, quite unlike a general practitioner, when you're seeing an urologist, something embarrassing is definitely going on.  You can't play it off by coughing excessively or limping over to the magazine rack.  Impotence, incontinence, erectile dysfunction and STDs are the staples of the urologist's office.  It's not the kind of place where you go to make friends or meet other singles.

Sharing the waiting room with me was an old guy in a wheelchair and, unexpectedly, a cute, young girl.  Smell alone told me that incontinence was just the tip of the iceberg with the old guy - with him it was obviously more a question of what was working than what wasn't - but the young girl had me stumped.  She was wholesome-looking and conservatively dressed, didn't appear nervous and had no visible lesions.  She was sitting there reading her book when I arrived, so it's possible that she was just waiting for someone.  This conclusion immediately heightened my self-awareness and I decided it was time to play defense. 

Other than exposing myself and engaging in some frowned-upon public behaviors, I had no idea how to act fertile, chlamydia-free and maturely ejaculating.  Instead, I decided to be friendly and carefree, believing that this would surely indicate that I was a well-adjusted, fully functioning man.

A few moments later a young man entered the waiting room and, as he looked around, our eyes met.  He smiled.

"Good morning."
I saw this as my opportunity. 

"Good morning!" I blurted back. "How are you?"

"Great, my friend.  Just great.  How are you doing today?" he replied cheerily. 

Perfect. This is going swimmingly, I thought. We're just like two old friends with perfectly fine peckers having a chat.
 
"Couldn't be better."

"Fantastic.  Good to see you."

"You, too."

As he stepped up to the receptionist's window, I reclined back into my seat, satisfied with a job well done.

Then, while my new pal was leaning in speaking with the receptionist, his tote bag slipped off his shoulder and thudded against the counter.  Everyone in the room looked up to consider the source of the sound, and that's when I finally noticed the large logo on his bag.

Cialis.

I just engaged in a public display of affection with the fucking Cialis guy.  The only way this could've been worse is if he walked in, saw me sitting there and said, "Hey, Crunchy! How's the tool working?" and then tossed some free samples at me. 

After rehashing this incident in my mind - and I have, at great length - what bothers me most is that, between the wheelchair guy and me, this professional salesman of erectile dysfunction drugs made a point of speaking to me.  I was identified as the potential customer in the room. 

Crud.