Anal Probe

Was at the doctor this morning for some regular bloodwork (let's see if this new heatlhy lifestyle lowers the cholesterol a tidge). As he's rifling through my chart, he says, "I know you don't look your age, but when was the last time I did a rectal on you?"

"Does that line work on everybody?"

He reminded me that as I'm over 40 (barely, and thank, I know, I don't look it), it should be once a year.

I told him I couldn't even remember and I thought he'd never ask.

After the routine looky-loos and listens, he remembers he wanted to check down below. "Okay, lower your pants and bend over the examining table. I'll buy you a drink and whisper sweet nothings in your ear."

"Yeah yeah, I've heard it all before."

A quick feel: not much of a poke, let alone a massage. "Perfect," he says.

"That's all you've got?" I ask, pulling up my pants and making a mental note to find a doctor with bigger fingers.

"What, you wanted my whole fist?"

"Oh my. What kind of boy do you take me for?" I buckle my belt in a flourish of mock indignity. "You'd really have to have bought me a couple drinks for that. And since there's no sling in the office ..."

"How do you know?" he says, smiling and looking up at the ceiling. "I could press a few buttons on that examining table, the ceiling could open and ... voila. We are, after all, a service industry."

I wonder what the insurance code for that is? And what's a reasonable charge?