A few weeks back I did a little manscaping and I found a mole that wasn't there before. I wasn't too worried about it, but I made the mistake of telling my wife, who immediately called and got me an appointment with our GP.
The next day I was in my GP's waiting room with a mask on, sandwiched between several older gentlemen with bad coughs, when the doctor--a lady who was about my age with wild curly hair and big breast--who was also wearing a mask popped out and called my name. I followed her back to her examination room and took a seat.
"Hi Mr Johnson. I'm Dr Morano. I'm one of the locum doctors on rotation. What seems to be the problem?"
For some reason her voice sounded familiar, but I couldn't place her, especially with the mask on.
"I found a mole that I want checked out," I said as I eyed her suspiciously.
"Great, let's see it," she said in a matter-of-fact way.
"It's down there," I motion with my finger.
"No problem. It isn't anything I haven't seen before," she said as she stood up and put on a pair of rubber gloves. "Drop your trousers and let's see it."
I did as I was told. I undid my trousers and pulled them down just enough to show the doctor the mole in question and the dumb shark tattoo I got on holiday with my ex-girlfriend from university nearly 25 years ago.
"Okay, let's take a look....!" The doctor gasped as she looked down at my privates.