Dark side of the moon

Lately I've stricken in an area of my body that is the source of 90% of the jokes of boys age 3 to 15 and South Park fans of any age. While I've relished the ability, with my special credentials, to add to that voluminous body of scatological humor, I've resisted adding my special stamp to the genre.

'Cause it really does hurt. I've hurt off-and-on since mid April, with minor surgery planned in a few days. So in one sense I'm dealing with my mortality and it shows most acutely when I go for appointments at my special doctor. I pull into the parking ramp and the parking ticket is spit out of the machine. I wait for the lumbering elevator impatiently in the quiet hallway with dingy carpet. I enter the hushed waiting room and hand my parking ticket to the receptionist to be validated.

I feel like Jack Lemmon in one of those Florida retiree movies. Except I don't have a big space egg growing in my indoor pool. Instead, it's growing in my... oh never mind.