"Benign Prostatic Hypertrophy"

This unassuming little blog entry is intended more for our Lady Patriots out there in Internet-Land than us males.  Because we already know all about it.  And we wish we didn't...

Those three words up there on the Masthead are what the medical establishment calls it.  I'll tell you what I call it: 

                 %$&^#@*++!

I was introduced to "Mr. Prostate" one fine day whilst attempting to pee.  As I had done so very many times before.  I mean, thousands of times before.  Hundreds of thousands of times before!  Exceppppt, this time nothing came out.  Nothing ventured forth.  Or even fifth.  Or eighth.  Or twenty-third.  I whipped out my Bad Johnson and proceeded to try and pee.  And couldn't.  

And I didn't know why.

I was to soon find out.  In fact, I found out later than most men that I had contracted "BPH" as outlined above.  And it means that the gland encircling the ureter, between the bladder and Mr. Johnson, has awakened and put himself in charge of when I can pee.  Or even if...

This gland, Mr. Prostate, does nothing good for mankind.  And certainly not for men writ large.  In fact, IT decides how long it takes for us men to pee.  In fact, we often have to negotiate with it.  We have to talk to it.  And bargain with it.

Or sit while we contemplate our next move.  And if that doesn't work, hike up one hip and focus intently on the task at hand while straining really hard.  

Yeah, like that.  

I thought something was wrong with me.  With exception of a bad back, necessitating 4 surgeries at the time, five now, I made an appointment with a urologist.  After waiting months to find out my fate, I suffered through a battery of tests.  They took hours, with most of them demeaning to me and Mr. Johnson.  Some of those tests even took place in front of cute young babes, making any attempts to focus on the task completely out of the question.  

So I learned from the doctor that I had "BPH."  He said almost all men after the age of 40 wind up afflicted with it.  And that there was basically nothing I could do about it.  Except expect for it to take longer to pee.

Gee thanks, Doc!

In fact, that helpful young doctor explained further that more than half of all men wind up dying with prostate cancer, but not from it.  Because it grows so slowly we usually succumb from another ailment.  And God knows, as we age, we accumulate ailments.  It's my theory that we finally die when we get so sick of all our ailments we just roll over and give up.  

Ummm, maybe TMI.

So like I said, I've come to terms with Mr. Johnson's unwanted guest.  He wasn't invited and he's overstayed his welcome.  But there's no way I can evict him no matter how hard I try.  It seems he's just a part of growing old.  Like hair growing out of your ears but not on the top of your head.  

So I've learned to sit down, open up a magazine and just ask Mr. Johnson to explain to Mr. "BPH" that I'm not going anywhere.  And he might as well unleash the spigot.  "Unquench your miserable hold on nature!," I bellow!     

Sometimes it works.  Sometimes it doesn't.  And if it doesn't, I just have to wait awhile until I'm about to explode in order to go around Mr. "BPH" and pee like a racehorse.  Like a cow pissing on a flat rock.  Like a fire hose.  Like that...

I know childbirth's a bitch, but our womenfolk only have to go through it a time or two.  We men, on the other hand...