I went to get a physical for the first time in about ten years. I hadn’t seen my doctor in so long, they kicked me out and tried to make me register as a new patient. Whatever, I signed up with my wife’s care provider. Not the OB/GYN. My lady parts are sound.
I was filling out the paperwork and the secretary asked me which Chris Coen I was, as there were two addresses. “I moved. That’s my old address. I have no idea how you have it…but it’s me.” She seemed confused, as though no one had ever moved before in their entire customer database. Off to a good start.
I was filling out the new patient info when I got to sex. The girl at Babies R Us called me ma’am the night before and I just got an email from the Honest Company about organic tampons, so there’s that. I looked it over. “Male.” OK. “Female.” OK. “Transgender.” OK, we’ve got them all covered. No, there’s one more. “Unknown.” Now I’m really thrown askew. I expected a “Decline to answer” or fill in the blank option, but not unknown. If it means I don’t have to get the ol’ prostate checked, unknown it is.
During the checkup we got to the inevitable hernia check. Right before I had to drop the drawers and cough, my new doctor, a woman, asked if I needed a chaperone or assistant. What’s that? Apparently in order to avoid a sexual harassment case, they can bring in the same gender. Yes, if I’m uncomfortable with a woman feeling me up, the solution sounds like bring some brutish man doctor to stare at me while you do it. No thanks, I’ll take my chances with you, doc.
I was in good shape, or at least subpar like every other fat American, so I got out of there. It is my goal to not go back until 2025, so I need to start shopping online for a bubble or cyborg parts. Luckily, alcohol preserves things, so I will probably live forever if I keep drinking.