So a horse walks into a bar

(This post title has nothing to do with anything. I’m feeling v. surrealist this AM)

I recently put out a mass e-mail asking my friends if any of them recommended a gynecologist. The response rate is alarming, to say the least—I even got a reply from the pregnant “man”, which I quickly deleted as the idea of a pregnant “man” is seriously bizarre and off-putting and I don’t give a sod if this makes me close-minded.

I’ve never seen my friends and pregnant men respond so quickly to anything I send out, and with such unintentionally amusing responses:

“Why do you want a chick?”
“I only like men touching me…”
“My doctor has dreads and could probably score you some weed…”
“I don’t want to get all psychological, but I think men doctors are gentler for “natural” reasons…”
"I googled "gynecologist" to make sure I was spelling it right, and one of the top hits was a YouTube video entitled "My gynecological visit." What the fuck is wrong with the world?" (ok, this was me, but I consider myself to be friends with myself).

I was just lamenting the other night, in my characteristically brooding way, how I don’t see much of my friends anymore (yet I can watch a stranger's visit to the gyno on effing YouTube?!?). I guess this is all part of being an “adult”: we lose touch with friends and worry about things like who we want to look at our junk in a clinical setting.* Little did I know that combining these two problems would stir up some serious auld lang syne, and provide a morning diversion from the excitement that is my job.

*Note: using the phrase “look at our junk in a clinical setting” just bumped me from the adult category (and the tasteful category). Given this latest development, none of this actually matters anymore.

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