So, I was in my doctor's office a few months ago, and due to a little medical problem that shall go unmentioned here, she tells me that she wants me to have a Kō-lĕn-oś-kō-pē. I responded, "But I don't want to have a Kō-lĕn-oś-kō-pē !" "Well," she says, "then you can go to this specialist and see what he says about it." Confident in the intimate relationship I have with my own body, I decided to do just that. I would show her who needed what.
At my fifth visit to the specialist, he comes in the exam room and says to me, "I can't find anything wrong with you that would cause this problem that you're having. I think you need to have a Kō-lĕn-oś-kō-pē."
Dang it.
My wife, who knows a little bit about these matters agreed with the specialist and smiled that little smile that says, "Sorry dude."
So, I resigned myself to be a grown-up about the whole thing, and have it done. And I did. It wasn't so bad. There were no Sharpie drawings on my posterior, and the whole place wasn't pointing and laughing at me when I came around to consciousness. Whew.
Now for the Rest Of The Story...
The results were normal. Just like I knew they would be - even though having a Kō-lĕn-oś-kō-pē was something I did not want to do.
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