I want to believe...

Not to get melodramatic here, but I'm in pain about 80 percent of the time these days. Even though I still see myself as a rather highly-functioning fibro-chotic, some days I'm really getting my ass handed to me, so-to-speak.

Here's the segue:

So, I was back at the doctor this week with prostatitis symptoms again. Well of course I peed in a cup, thank you for asking, albeit without a shred of commitment. It's kind of funny when you go to the lab and enter a bathroom with that cup in your hand. You stand there (or sit, depending on your anatomy) and look at that little metal door to the lab. I'm worried it'll fly open and there will be a sweaty dude in a lab coat panting and looking at his watch. "Hurry up my friend, I can hardly wait for your uurrrinnnee." I imagine his voice to be calculated and hypnotic, with just a hint of psycho right underneath. He picks random consonants to over-pronounce just to enhance the creep-factor.
Oh wait, this is Hannibal Lecter we're talking about --
yeah, that's the voice.
Anywho, I had to run the faucet to get the 'ol bladder's attention, you understand. I finish my "transaction" and realize I've given them gallons of pee over the last year, and now I'm getting suspicious.
On a side note -- I hate whenever I have a health issue, I go to the doctor and she says "Drop 'em." meaning my pants. One way or another, I'm assuming the position. "Got a hangnail?" Bend over. "Hey, did you just blink?" Grab your ankles. I'm getting plenty of action these days, no two ways about it ... but I digest.

So, this week as I was being "inspected", my mind began to wander and it occurred to me that I'm missing a big piece of the prostate-exam puzzle.

Wait for it --

The world is infested by aliens.

No, hear me out.

Long ago, aliens would visit only rural, single-wide, mobile-home-riddled areas -- with, how can I say this delicately ... a less-than desirable gene pool. At some point the aliens sat down and had a conference.

They ordered dozens of bagels, with various flavors of cream cheese and those funky boxes of coffee from Starbucks.

A determined looking alien stood up, cleared two of his three throats and uttered the very words that changed their business plan:

"Hey, did anyone see American Idol last night?" I kid.

What he really said was that they'd been doing this human-experimentation thing all wrong. "What we have to do, is figure out a way to get them to come to us."

Enthusiastic nods all around, more coffee, some chit-chat and then they hatched a plan. They would infiltrate the cities and the media, telling everyone that the colon is in danger of disease, clogging, and hell, it very well could explode! We, being the gullible public we are, ate it right up. To top it off, we would even pay THEM to probe our tail pipes and feel up our unmentionables. It's really quite brilliant when you stop to think about it.

Oh, they're crafty all right. But I'm not fooled for a moment. I mean, who the hell goes to school just to poke their finger in your butt? Someone with a really sinister agenda, that's who. Gynecologist? More like twisted alien freak with a Freudian I-want-to-go-back-home-to-mommy complex. Even from a guy's point of view, I'd imagine the rate of really attractive vaginas can't be more than 30 percent, on a good day. Women often go to their OBGYN because something's gone haywire with their hoohaw, no? It's not like all women put their feet in the stirrups waring spiked heels and crotchless panties. And who the hell wants to look at man-sphincter all day? You can bet that ratio is about 3 percent for the entire year.
See how I rationalize?
You're welcome.
So.
Where's the draw?
Oh, I can tell you since you're twisting my arm.
World domination!
I've got gelatinous swill in places I can barely reach because these bastards mean business. Don't be fooled! We must ban together before we are probed into complete submission.

OK, truth be told, I've had a bit more coffee than I normal do.