Mr. Johnson, I’m Afraid We’re Going to Have to Let You Go

(I knew when I asked my pal Idiot Boy to bless me with a guest post, I could count on it to be funny, sharply observant and almost certain to involve the word "johnson". And my faith was rewarded! Behold, a keen little essay on Things We Dudes Don't Really Want To Talk About. Trust me, you'll laugh! - Irish Gumbo)

I have a physical exam scheduled for Tuesday of next week and I’m dreading it. Nothing good can come from a physical and the staff at the Doctor’s office does everything they can to prove to you this fact from the second you walk in the door. Everything from the 27 page sign-in forms, to the glacial pace at which the 13 patients waiting ahead of you are called, to the long wait in the chilly exam room when all you have on is a paper dress (open at the back), and the finger up the ass “prostate exam”, are all designed to remind you a visit to the Doctor’s office is but a sampling of hell.

That’s all horrible enough, but what I’m really concerned about is what the Doctor will tell me. He’s going to say I have high-cholesterol and high-blood-pressure. I know he will tell me this because it is the same thing he told me the last 3 times I have had exams. And, I know this time, he is going to very strongly suggest I start a treatment program which involves exercise (ugh), consuming a diet of hog-fuel, cardboard and broccoli (ugh!), and certain medications (UGH!).

I can get past the exercise and the fiber intake for the high-cholesterol; it’s the drugs for the high-blood-pressure that have me freaking-out. A friend of mine, who suffers from the same condition, has told me that his medications leave him…somewhat lacking…in the libido department. Worse, he actually has trouble, um….getting the bread to rise…on the rare occasions he finds himself even remotely interested in sex.

Upon hearing of this news, I immediately Googled up articles on high-blood- pressure meds and, what Doctors refer to as “Erectile Dysfunction”, or what I like to call, “The Death of Meaning and Purpose”. As it turns out, my fears are well founded. Apparently these “medicines”, while great at lowering blood pressure, also reduce blood flow to Mr. Johnson and therein lies the lack-of-rub.

This begs a fucking serious philosophical question (or is it a serious philosophical fucking question?) to whit:

Is there a point to living longer if you can’t continue to employ Mr. Johnson in the capacity for which he was hired?

Well, my wife thinks so.

“What do you think?” I asked. “According to the information, I’ll be less stiff than a garden hose on a hot summer day”.

“Wouldn’t you rather be alive?”

“Uh, no, I wouldn’t”.

“If you ask me, it’s a small price to pay”. She chuckled, then turned and walked away. I’m pretty- sure I heard her humming “Zippity-Do-Dah” as she left for the store (she said she needed to get some “D” batteries). Sometimes that woman can be just cruel.

So, I guess I’ll take the medication because, I “want” to be around to watch my son get married, and I am “looking forward” to playing with my grandkids, and I “hope” to escort my wife into her golden years, and blah, blah, blah, blah, blah…