My Annual Physical

January 1, 2023

The other night when we were getting ready for bed, my wife exclaimed, “how in the world did you get those scratches on your butt?”

I went to the clinic today, I told her, for my annual physical. After hanging around most of the afternoon, being prodded and poked, and answering a thousand questions, I was beginning to feel confident the worst was behind me.

Suddenly the doctor said the most feared sentence a grown man can hear, “slide your shorts down and bend over the exam table.” Believe me, I knew what was coming.

“I won't, and you can't make me,” I said while slowly backing away.

“Oh, yes I can,” she growled through clenched teeth as she slowly advanced.

“Get away from me with that,” I said pointing at her gloved and vasolined finger. Then I screamed and began running around the exam table with her in hot pursuit. We knocked over chairs and bounced off the walls.

“Get back here you old Fart,” she screamed. “You can't get away, now stop acting like a fool.”

Around and around we went. I was screaming and she was yelling, “I haven't got time for this foolishness.” Every time she got close she grabbed at the waistband of my Y-fronts, and her fingernails would dig into my backside. That's how the scratches got there.

“Don't worry,” I told my wife, “They're not going to charge us to replace the furniture – as long as I promise to see some other doctor for my next physical.”

Oh, Muse, give me a golden line of bullshit, and the wisdom to know when to stop spreading it.