Faint hearted readers refrain.
After my Mammo last week, I have decided to invent a machine — The penis-o-gram. O! Ye women – who have suffered this not so subtle torture, we shall lead a victory dance to all male toilets, grab them and make them go through this very vital test! C’mon – we are as concerned with the health of their precious gems as they are of ours. Right?
Bloody holy hell! Only a man could have invented this mechanism of torment! Some chap called Andre Willemin. I read up on his history – life and death. He was served justice! He died of a severely decapitated and crushed penis injuries!
Have you seen a Focaccia bread?? That’s what they do to your boobs!
Sonography in itself is torturous. A full – and by full I mean bloody full bladder is needed. Then they strip you waist down, and apply cold gel all over your uterus! That doesn’t really help the urgent need to pee! Then they press a mouse like machine all over your uterus, but what they are actually doing is punching your bladder. Slowly, deliberately they press those very points, which can embarrass you right there and then! They keep punching keys in the machine and peering at it. As it is – its a test to check the health of your very precious baby producer – and you are just a wee bit nervous. And then there is the completely beaten up bladder, which you are controlling with military discipline, and on top of all this the technician hems and haws over the computer. One starts with wanting a woman to do such precarious job for you, but after a while you cannot be bothered. A dinosaur could be peering up your uterus it doesn’t matter. All that is in the site of your vision is a commode and some toilet paper!
One step further – no many many miles further is the Mammogram. Wrong word actually. Nothing mammo is left after the gram! All those mammary glands, made to feed the babies, are destroyed. Crushed! Hopelessly annihilated.
Obviously you are striped down, and asked to wear a smelly dirty hospital gown. (They can keep saying it is washed – it could be – but when? – is the question!) After this one looses all semblance of dignity!
One boob is lifted up and placed on a machine. You could be 7 feet tall, but the machine will always be a few inches higher than you – you have to stand on tip toes. Subtle torture has begun!
The poor unsuspecting, ill fated, boob is then placed on a shelf like thingy. The woman does thousands of adjustments. She cops a few good feels! Your hands are practically placed and stretched at angles and distances, you did not know you could manage. At that point you feel you have mastered Iyengar Yoga! After the stretching and pulling, she commands “stay still”, and slams another lever on top of your boobs – and victoriously turns the screws of yet another lever – till you have FOCACCIA Bread Boobs.
“Don’t move” she says again. Oh! but you want to! You want to pull your super stretched, immobile hand and slam her face with all your strength. You want to yell and curse!
And repeat with the second one. By now the second one knows its fate and completely shrinks. “Wow!” says the technician. I get to throw this one around a little more!
Once you are let off the machine, run. Barefeet, bare breasted but run!
I’m inventing that machine ladies. All technical minds are welcome. Women who know martial arts are required too.
I have already been funded – by all the women whom I instigated to do this test! Please know I just followed the Doctor’s orders. This suggestion was made before I went through it myself. I apologize!