I'm Dying. Seriously, this time.

I have cancer.

Alright, maybe not. But I think I do. I think this because that fucking urologist has no idea that I am a hypochondriac of the severest sort, and every time something is mildly wrong with me I become obsessed with it and swear it will kill me. The fact is, I've been pissing blood on and off, and after investigating it halfway a couple years ago, I had pretty much decided that it was just one of those things my body does. Some people smell terrible, some sweat a lot, I bleed on the inside and piss it out. Whatever.

A month ago, though, I pissed black, and that scared the ever living shit out of me. So I headed to the nearest urologists office and tried to figure out why I'm dying. There is something a bit off about people who make a living playing with dicks... the only other ones I know that do that are prostitutes, and I don't think that bodes well for the reputations of urologists.

"Have you taken any shots to the kidney area?"

"Not that I know of."

"Are you a smoker?"

"Yea."

"OK, so- oh wait, you are a smoker?"

"Yea." There's a lot of us, asshole. Don't sound so surprised.

"Ooohhh. Well, in that case we have to do a (insert fancy medical term) and make sure there's no tumors or cancer anywhere."

"What's that mean?"

"Well, it's pretty much the worst fucking thing you could, as a male, ever imagine." OK, he didn't say that. But that's more or less the gist... Yup. He's got to shove a camera up my cock. I am not nearly comfortable enough with this guy to let him do this, and the first thought that comes to mind is if the... whatever... is long enough that I can strangle him with it Syl-style if something goes wrong.

I can see it now, the scene straight out of Braveheart. I will be sitting there, shirt half open, eyes bleary and bloodshot from whiskey, and the room will be filled with four or five Jewish men. One will walk forward with the camera, see the look of absolute rage in my eyes, and turn to the nearest compatriot and yell, "Chutzpah! I will hold him down. You do it!" This man will walk forward, and then stop, and turn to the next guy. "Shalom! I'll hold him down! You do it!

I don't know any more Jewish words, so I don't know what the third guy will say, but whoever actually goes through with it is going to catch a wicked haymaker as soon they all let me go.

Now, I know that the odds are that I don't have cancer. If nothing else, the fact that I've been doing it for two years and am in exactly the same shape as I was then speaks to me- if I was really rotting on the inside, I'd probably have seen some side effects by now. Hopefully this goes the same as that time that I had a lump on my neck and was convinced that it was neck cancer (I don't know if that exists either) and it just turned out to be nothing, or the time that I pinched a nerve in my neck and became convinced that everytime my hands went numb I was having a heart attack (which, if I did, I survived about 3,245 of them). Yes, I have a history of overreacting.

But let me tell you... just in case... that doctor better have a cement jaw, because if I have cancer he better be quicker than Mayweather in getting the hell out of there.