The Prostate
It’s a sad fact of life that when you reach my age, the prostate can really start to act the cunt.
It begins fairly insignificantly. You need a jimmy more often than you used to, particularly during the night. Then sometimes you REALLY need to go, but get to the lav and you dribble and drabble and have to return five minutes later. You start to get a bit concerned, especially if you know someone who was similarly placed, and it turned out to be the dreaded Big C.
So off to the doc you trot. After humming and hawing, s/he will decide to do two things. Firstly blood will be taken, to determine whether your ‘psa level’ is abnormal. Secondly, on will go the latex glove, and a finger will be unceremoniously poked up your jaksey for a rummage about. ‘Mmm’ says the doc. ‘Your prostate’s swollen. I’ll refer you for further investigations’. Cosmic.
So it begins. You wait for ages to see the consultant, wondering just what the fuck you’re in for. You finally get an appointment, and the glove goes on again. You’ve just got to man up. ‘Well’, s/he says, peering over their glasses in that consultant type manner. ‘We need to do more tests’. No fucking shit Sherlock.
So you wait again, growing slowly but surely more anxious. Finally you go for an MRI scan, a boring but painless procedure. Not so the subsequent cystoscopy and biopsy. The former involves shoving a tube with a mini camera into your knob to examine the bladder. The latter involves pushing what feels like a broom handle up your ringpiece to take samples. Each procedure guarantees you a really fun day out at a Urology Department near you. And don’t expect any naughty consolations from the wife for ten days or so; your tackle will be in a sling and you literally will not be rising to the occasion for a while.
Then the worst wait of all begins, as you hope for yet dread the appearance of the envelope with the letters ‘NHS’ in the corner, marked’ private and confidential’. Finally it arrives, and offering a prayer to whoever your God is, you open it up. If your God is indeed merciful, you’ll read those wonderful words ‘no signs of malignancy were detected’, and you can breathe one almighty sigh of relief. Ok, your prostate’s the size of a cricket ball, but the enlargement is benign, and it’s treatable. You’ll be back at the hospital in due course to discuss a medication plan to reduce the size of the bastard. Then you’ll be monitored regularly. ‘Watchful waiting’ they call it, and you have to learn to live with it.
That’s the prostate for you, guys. We’ve all got one, and it can be a real cunt when it feels like it and no mistake. Anyway must dash, I’m dying for a piss…
Nominated by Ron Knee
I would like to cunt ‘ Martina Big’. Who she ? I hear you ask and up to 5 minutes ago I hadn’t heard of her either, just seen a tweet about her. She is the fucking brain dead muppet whose sole ambition is too have the biggest tits in the World. I fuckin kid you not. She looks fuckin ridiculous and she’s a cunt because she can’t see that.
Really? are fucking sure? if we are talking about the same person then I think you missed out something a little more worthy, re write your cunting or post I am a cunt 100 times before sunset or your banned!
https://youtu.be/urrXtXxGz6g
Can I cunt Dick the Turd for either: being pissed at 09.31 or missing the true cuntitude of this fucking halfwit
Lol.all i’ve Seen is a short tweet. I can’t be arsed to re write it. So wot ever.
OK anyone else want to have a go? its worth it, a reverse Michael Jackson with a south African accent
Oh ffs I just saw the ITV appearance. Jesus h Christ. Wtf.? She should change her name to Martina Cunt. Un fuckin believable.
told you, you have struck gold, even I have never seen so much cuntishness in my life and even the presenters were a bit worried at the end
a conversation with admin, by admin