Zazu’s Special Report: Warning! Content is graphic. May be disturbing to male readers. Parents are advised to use discretion!

2009 December 10
by mockers

Someone in the industry once told me that “if you always give the people what they want, you’ll always have work.”  That turned out to be horrible advice because, how the hell am I supposed to know what people want?  One thing I do know, you guys like Zazu:

I am feeling very resentful and picked on today because I have my annual mammogram scheduled for 2:30.  I skipped my appointment last year – just couldn’t work myself up into a good masochistic mode enough to go.  So I guess this is my bi-annual mammogram or tri-annual as I might not get in the mood to have my boobies squished for another couple of years.

I have said all along that if men had to do this every year or whatever frequency the medical community is currently recommending, a different test would have been developed long ago.  It is only women who would agree to submit to this torture over and over.  And don’t bring up the prostrate anal finger poke either or I will go on to bitch about ovary exams.

Anyway I know that at least half of my audience is going “Yeah,yeah, so what? You want a little whine with your cheese?”

Metten’s worries about penis cancer got me to thinking…..

I think someone should invent the scrotogram.  Some medical committee somewhere should make up the rule that every male over the age of 40 should be required to have a yearly scrotogram.  That way we can open big fancy medical facilities called “Men’s Life Center” or “Scrotal Health Centers” or “Mr. Scrot’s Diagnostic Center”.  Diagnostic clinics are always big money makers.  (Can you tell I work in healthcare?)

They can be decorated in coordinated cammo color schemes.  We can have Scrotum Health Month and encourage everyone to wear little round  khaki green pins.  Our TVs can broadcast lots of commercials encouraging men to do monthly self checks and to develop buddy systems so they can call each other and remind their friends to do the same.

Just picture how much fun it would be!

As soon as you show up at the clinic, you will be asked to remove your pants and instead of a cute pink shoulder cape, you will sit around in the lounge area in your khaki green kilt waiting for the scrotogram tech to call your name.  He will be a young guy whose only job is to handle scrotums – big ones, small ones, young ones, old ones with blue veins, firm ones and saggy ones.  You will secretly wonder who the hell picks this for a career.

Once your name is called, you will be led to the x-ray room and be asked to remove your kilt.  The tech will ask you if you have applied any powders or sprays.  If you did, he will give you a baby wipe so that you can remove it.  The tech, who probably has a young firm scrotom of his own, will tape your pecker to your abdomen so he can examine your sack.  If he sees any scars or blemishes he will ask you about them and then mark them with cute little cammo metallic strips. Then he will ask you to step up to the machine.

zazusmachineThe machine goes from floor to ceiling and looks like the biggest C clamp you have ever seen. The tech will push your naked front side up against the cold metal and hit the switch the raises and lowers the compression plates to adjust the industrial size clamp to the height of your crotch.  Once he is satisfied with the height, he will unceremoniously reach out and grab your scrotom with his cold hands and yank it forward.  He will pull you closer to the cold machine using only your nut bag.  You will end up leaning your hip against the big clamper but he will tell you not to.  You will move back a bit and this will be difficult since he still has you by the sack.  He will then push your body to the left or right as he lines your sack up to the lines drawn on the big crusher.  With two handfuls (you wish) of your body part the tech will start to tell you cute story about his do while he pulls you back and forth into position.  Finally, once he has your nuts where he wants them, he will hold them down against the cold metal plate and hit the switch to start the slow descent of the huge metal plate.

At first you will only feel the machine grab your precious part but within a few seconds the pressure will increase.  The tech will tell you to hold your breath which you already started doing as soon as the cold plate came in contact with your manhood.  He will continue to lower the plate and you will look down wondering why your sack doesn’t explode open but you can’t really see anything since your eyes are watering so much.  You couldn’t even begin to breathe now even if you wanted to.  You know holding your breath is the only thing that keeps you from screaming.

“OK, hold it right there.” The tech says and then disappears around a corner.  This is when you begin to wonder what you would do if the building suddenly caught fire.  Your knees are trembling.  You can’t not lean against the machine now but you want to be sure you don’t mess up this x-ray.  No way are you going to endure this again.  The first picture has got to be a good one.  The seconds tick slowly by.  What the hell?  Did he go to lunch?

You hear a slight click.  Is it done now?  Your heart, filled with hope, leaps up into your throat.  Your scrotum is throbbing.  The tech comes back around the corner.  You think “Bastard, you better be running!”  but he isn’t. He is all business and brisk professionalism.  It ain’t his nuts in the vice.

He hits the switch and the top plate of the clamp slows moves up and the tight grip on the jewels begins to lessen.  You slump against the machine, breathless.  Mr. Scrot is numb for a few blessed seconds but as soon as he swings free from the support of the x-ray plate the throbbing starts.

“OK,” the tech says “you can put your kilt back on and go back to the waiting area.  Don’t get dressed yet until the doc says this view is OK.”  He leaves the room and you look at your sack expecting it to be a pancake.  It looks surprisingly normal.  Then you put the kilt back around your waist and hobble out to the waiting area.  You ease gingerly onto one of the padded cammo chairs.  Now you know why they are so cushy.  For the next 10 minutes you sit there on pins and needles praying the first film turned out good.  If it didn’t, you are bolting to the dressing area and finding your pants anyway – just as soon as the throb eases off a bit.

Lot of fun, yeah? And you just got one scrotum.  You didn’t have to do it twice.

11 Responses leave one →
  1. 2009 December 10

    It’s a trade-off.
    Can you imagine how much bitching us men would do if this were the case? And you would have to listen to it which probably would make a mammogram seem like a nice little getaway.

    Remember, good fortune is often disguised as a big turd, but it’s a diamond filled turd.

    BTW, very damn good writing!

  2. 2009 December 10

    LOL, scrotogram

  3. 2009 December 10

    Nope. Not happening.

  4. 2009 December 10
    WB in OH permalink

    Ohh, I was squirming in my seat the whole through.

  5. 2009 December 10
    Vicki permalink

    Oh, Zazu…you’re so funny. I think we need to you twice a week.

  6. 2009 December 10
    Vicki permalink

    need you. Not need to you. My head aches today. See how we need you?

  7. 2009 December 10
    kristin permalink

    Zazu – you need to invent and then patent this.

  8. 2009 December 10
    In Agony, GA permalink

    Beautiful! As much as I enjoy the vision (will give me something to think about when I’m angry at my husband), it’s not worth the bitching and crying we’d have to listen to all year long leading up to and after each scrotogram appointment…
    The rounds pins were a nice touch! I sort of pictured it like a grenade…

  9. 2009 December 10
    Zazu permalink

    Skully, a man of wisdom for sure!

  10. 2009 December 10
    Limey permalink

    How would you get both nuts in that machine simultaneously? Doesn’t look nearly big enough.

    You just know some scrotogramist would go for a cute name like Ye Olde Testes Tests.

  11. 2009 December 14

    uhm… i pay my doctor good money every year to fondle my nuts and tell me when there’s cancer.

    i also pay prostitutes good money every week to make sure that my junk is working.

    please don’t tell my girlfriend. she thinks i lose all my money at the track.

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