Singing Mammograms!

The second worst part about getting a mammogram is not being able to wear deodorant. The worst part, of course, is having your boobs squashed by a two-ton machine.

Today only my left breast was violated. This photo session was a follow-up to the hooter surgery I had six months ago. The docs needed to see if my ductoscopy-- which sounds like a procedure a duck has when he no longer wants to be a duck-- was successful.

I like to think of mammograms as a necessary evil. Yes, they are unpleasant but so is waiting in line at the DMV.

The most unsettling part of the test is having a strange woman man-handle your knockers. It must be like being on a date with an inexperienced lesbian. (Having never been on a date with an inexperienced lesbian-- or an experienced lesbian-- I can only guess.) You stand there helplessly as your precious cargo is is pushed around like a mound of ground chuck. You just want to yell, "Hey, some people really like these!"

The squashing part is also odd. At any moment you swear they're going to pop like a pimple. (For the record, they don't... or at least mine don't.)

They take four shots...one front and one side for each breast. There's lots of tugging and twisting, turning the hapless patient into human Silly Putty. For a half-second, I expected the technician to press my boobs down on the comic's section to pick up a print of Garfield. "Go ahead, put Marmaduke on the other one so they look like they're chasing each other."

It's all over in a matter of minutes so there's no excuse not to get one. And you get to wear home the nifty bandaid with the silver ball that they put over your nipple. At least I wore it home. Doesn't everybody?