What’s Up, Doc?

What a maroon.

Tony sent me an email first thing yesterday morning. All it said was “Call me when you hear from doctor.”

A few minutes later, Caryn called.

“Didja hear anything yet?” she asked.

“I haven’t called,” I said, “but you’ll be the first to know.”

Then my last steady girlfriend texted me:

Hi! Any word on your dick?

I laughed and told her I’d let her know.

My dick doc told me to call his office yesterday morning to get the biopsy results and honestly, I wasn’t in a great hurry to do it. My thinking was, “As long as I don’t hear from him, I don’t have cancer! And if I do have cancer, wouldn’t the schmuck have already called?”

I was pretty much able to compartmentalize my anxiety these past few days, mainly by going to see crappy movies (Lincoln was like choking down history Robitussin and Life of Pi was one of those “beautiful to look at” films) and by eating lots of good bad food (pizza and more pizza). Sunday night, however, the dread took hold and I couldn’t enjoy the Giants/Packers game or The Good Wife or Homeland or even taste the garlic and pepperoni, and finally took an Ambien to put me out of my misery.

And speaking of misery, I’m thinking that because of the long holiday, the doctor’s office is probably calling everyone who has cancer first (“Hello, I hope you had a great Thanksgiving, but don’t make plans to have sex any time soon …”), so the longer I wait to hear from them, the better the news. Maybe I’ll never get around to calling.

If I really want the phone to ring, however, all I have to do is take a shower because that’s the way the universe works with me (and when I say “works,” I mean “fucks.”) Watch! I’ll ignore my iPhone for five minutes, and when I come back, I’ll see a missed call and voicemail message from the doctor. Guaranteed! BRB.

I stayed in there for an extra long time and let the hot water rush over me. Being clean on the outside was my OCD way of feeling that I’ll be clean on the inside and that’s what I kept saying to myself until I dried off, reached for my iPhone and …

… nothing!

Fuck this shit! I’ve had it! I’m going to call right now! Hold on. (I’m sick to my stomach!)

(And please God! Don’t let it be cancer!)

You’re not going to believe what I just heard:

“We’re currently experiencing technical difficulties with our phone system. Please leave a message and we’ll call you back shortly.”

You’re fucking kidding me! This is a cosmic joke, right? I’m being punked. C’mon out, Ashton, I know you’re hiding in my closet. Isn’t this what they did to the prisoners at Abu Ghraib? I swear, you can’t make this shit up. I left a snotty message five minutes ago and …

OMG! The phone’s ringing. BRB.

I DON’T HAVE CANCER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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