The Proctologist's Monologue

I am so, so sorry.

Gilbert had been grimacing for so long he was no longer aware of it. Even the people directly addressing him did not receive as much attention as the lump of agony and despair that had been his greatest torment for the last week.

Dr. Glover, however, had as much attention as Gilbert could manage, for he was the one man who could help.

"So what seems to be the problem?" asked Dr. Glover with a cool smile that seemed to mock Gilbert's plight.

"I think I have hemorrhoids," groaned Gilbert.

"Really? What makes you think that?"

Gilbert opened his mouth to speak, closed it. After a moment's thought he said, "Look, I'll just pull my pants down."

"I'll call the police."

Gilbert's hands froze in the process of undoing the belt buckle. "I'm sorry?"

"You are about to force your private parts upon my eyes unsolicited," said Dr. Glover, hand hovering over the intercom button. "If you do so, I shall call the police."

"You -- you'll have to see me naked anyway."

"Not if I can help it. Please, do sit down."

Gilbert eyed the cushioned chair, which in his present condition might as well be made out of cactus.

"I'll stand if you don't mind."

"Not at all. What do the..." Dr. Glover supressed a strangely manic giggle, "... hemorrhoids look like?"

"Like a big lump next to my anus. Golf ball big. It actually sticks out from between my buttocks."

"That, my good sir, is a perianal hematoma," said Dr. Glover, standing up. "Which you'd know if you had spent the last ten years studying the mysteries of the human rectum, as I have for reasons that to this day I cannot fathom. Which is why I do not need you to undress and curse my dreams with visions of your disgusting fecal tunnel. I have seen many, yet they all manage to be memorable in distinct and absolutely unwelcome ways. They flash across my mind at the most innopportune of times. I will be talking to an acquaintance and their mouth suddenly becomes a prolapsed anus quivering in agony, spewing blood with every syllable. I'll be eating chocolate and with every bite it tastes less like chocolate. I'll be making love to my wife and she'll ask for the 'back door entrance' and I'll fall to the floor having seizures. I'll go to the bathroom and be deathly afraid of the millions of horrible things that might happen to my tender sphincter because of it, such as the horror you are facing right now to which there is no cure. All you can do is to take some painkillers and an expensive medication which will seem to do nothing and probably won't, and wait for what you call a golf ball sized lump to stretch the skin until it breaks and secretes the contents onto your underwear. It'll hurt for every last second of its blasted existence and if by the end of it you still believe any 'intelligent design' went into the creation of the human body you sir are a fool of unbelievably colossal proportions."

The doctor paused, his twitching smile struggling to persist in his face.

"But the point you should take away from all this," he said in a conclusive tone, "is do not lower your goddamn pants."

The End

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