Last fall my daughter, The Smurf, and I flew out to Alberta to help my son and his wife drive across Canada and back to Ontario. It was a great trip but our very last day became an amazing adventure and somewhat scary.

Let me explain.

We all decided we wanted to take the Chichimon from Port Baymouth to Tobermory. The ferry ride is about 2 hours in length and the Lake Huron crossing from Manitoulin Island to Tobermory saves a lot of white-knuckle rock-cut driving through Northern Ontario.

This would be our touristy- last kick at the cat. We had driven by so many interesting places but didn’t have time to stop. Many suggested that the drive through Sudbury really wasn’t that bad but, we were determined to take the nautical route.

I actually received a text from my nephew, Justin , saying, “Maybe you’d better take the road route because it’s going to be windy and the ferry might be closed.”

He was worrying about us from a great distance. The only problem was that I got that message just as we were pulling out of port.


As the ship pulled out, we were in the shelter of some islands so all was calm, cool and collected. Indeed, the cafeteria opened and a huge line formed to purchase greasy-spoon type dishes and the like. Mounds of fries and poutine were being consumed at an alarming rate. Bellies were being filled to the max and all of this washed down with soda and strong coffee.

So what happened was our little touristy side trip turned out to be much like a ride on the Edmond Fitzgerald or the Titanic. Once out of the protection of those islands, all hell broke loose. Twenty-eight knot winds from the Northeast whipped up waves of mammoth proportions. The weather reports later described this as NEAR GALE FORCE WIND.  That kind of wind can churn up 15 to 20 foots swells, I’m told.

As the rocking turned to barrel rolls, I was beginning to think that the ship’s name was given from a Jamaican expression, as in, “You look like you’re gonna Chi Chi, mon!”  Remember our passenger manifest included those who had wolfed down massive amounts of food and drink and what goes down, must come up, right.

When I was standing in the gift shop I had to scramble to keep by balance; literally running to get my feet to stop.

The trip over open water was incredibly rocky and so the voyage soon produced a, “Puke-nam-ee” of major proportions.

Small children were screaming, and people were lying on the benches or crouched over barf bags. When Matt went to the washroom every stall contained a bowl hugger.

The ferry support staffs were handing out barf bags and cold J-clothes to those that were feeling ill, which was about 90% of the people onboard. Most people’s faces showed the skin colour of a cadaver. This would be a roller coaster ride that would last OVER two hours.

The lady in the gift shop told me this was the worst possible wind direction –North East. The only wind that would be worse would be Southeaster. In that case the ship would be left sitting in port.

While we were holding on in the gift shop a huge banging sound and a bump occurred.  The ship lurched and went up and down and sideways all at the same time. As you might imagine we all went white. I said what was that and the little old lady behind the counter said, “Don’t worry that’s just the huge waves crashing on the side of the ship.”

OMG! Get me off of here.

This was reminiscent of a ride we had a few years ago on the Diamond Princess as we navigated Alaska’s Inland Passage. However, the ferry we were riding now might have fit nicely into one of that cruise ships pools. And, at least on the Diamond Princess, passengers could retreat to their cabins to regurgitate.

Not here, my friends, as the entire scene was in-your-face and up close and personal.


Poor Dolly, the young couple’s dog, was required to remain down in the hold in the truck for the trip. It was 6 degrees and we would have had to stay on deck with her for the voyage. With all that rain and rocking and rolling I think we would have been washed overboard anyway.

Near the end of the trip I felt as if we were in a disaster movie. People were screaming and moaning and had looks of terror in their eyes. That’s about the time they told us to head down to our vehicles because we were heading in to port.

The Smurf was feeling sick and now that we were sitting in the car, she felt claustrophobic. You could still feel the ship rolling, the cars were moving, despite their E-brakes being engaged and the banging and crashing sounds were echoing all around us.

She said to me, “I gotta get out of here, dad!”

The panic in her eyes and the fear her voice had anxiety attack written all over it.

I was hoping my daughter wasn’t just like my wife. You see, a few years back the good wife jumped to the dock from a dinner cruise ship before it had landed. It was a broad jump of mammoth proportions. Indeed, I guy at a table near me said, “Wow, did you see that broad jump?”

And, by the way, her last words to me that day were, “I gotta get out of here, Grumpy!”

In the end, we disembarked in Tobermory in hurricane force winds. Nevertheless, we all came out of this experience unscathed. We did sit in our vehicles for about 45 minutes after disembarking. Many others I fear were dis-em-BARFING on a regular basis.

Some of you might feel I used dramatic license in writing this little piece. Well, if you click the link below, you too can experience the “Puke-nam-ee” and feel like you’re are about to, “Chi-Chi, mon!”

Call it reality BLOGGING, if you will. LOL




As  all of you know, when you get older the old memory begins to fail you. It’s like finding your car in the mall parking lot without that key bob horn honker. On any given day you can see seniors wandering the parking lot, shuffling their feet and staring off into space pensively. Their zombie like behavior might remind you of a scene from Dawn of the Dead.

The clincher for me usually occurs on the basement steps. I go roaring down those steps to get something and by the time I hit the last riser I’ve forgotten what I went down for. The only solution is retracing my steps and heading back to where I began in hopes that the scenery around me will remind me of what the hell it was I went down for in the first place. The good wife often remarks about how we’ll have to replace the stair tread soon seeing as they are beginning to show signs of excessive wear.

Sure this is extra exercise for old Grumpy. But I’ll tell you this; stair climbing does absolutely nothing to improve that six pack – given that the beer fridge is down there.

Bill Cosby maintains that when you become older your memory centre slips downward and finds a home in your ass. His reasoning is that because we sit on it so much we restrict blood flow to our memory center. No doubt, the shrinking of our posteriors also signals loss of efficient function in that particular area. An African Canadian friend of mine calls this, “White Man’s Disease” –big gut with a small ass.

Bill might say, “Get off your ass and you’ll find what you’re looking for and remember what it was.”

The problem, as I found out, means that you are doing more looking than finding and often find things you were looking for days ago; things you don’t even need at the moment. You become a zombie within the confines of your own house.

WIFE: Why are you wandering all over the house?

GRUMPY: I’m looking for something.

WIFE: Looking for what?

GRUMPY: I’ll let you know when I find it.

WIFE: Well you better find it soon because your scaring the dog.

Inevitably, Pumba the Farting Dog is hunkered down under the dining room table, nose between his paws, thinking, “Grumpy has completely lost it again.” (No pun intended)

This very situation became more apparent to me on a recent sojourn to Toronto. We were at the Phenoms basketball tournament and decided to stay an extra night. We went back to the same hotel but, of course, were placed in a different room.

The good wife and the boy were about to watch a movie when I discovered that we had no ice for the scotch I had brought along with me. I said, “Just hold the movie a minute and I’ll run out and get some ice. It will only take me a few minutes.”

So, without me key-card, and dressed in bare feet and sleep pants I made my way down the corridor in search of ice. However, I could not find a machine on our floor.

Easy solution, I used the stairwell to go up and down floors in search of the illusive frozen water. Apparently this was akin to spinning around in a circle with a blindfold on because:

ONE: I was disorientated

TWO: I forgot our room number and what floor our room was on.

(Remember we had changed rooms and changed floors with this new booking)

I was lost and keyless.

So, I went up and down the elevator (Breaking Grump’s #1 Hotel Rule) and slinked down the hallways, listening at doors, hoping to hear the family’s chatter, but to no avail. I’m sure good folks were perched at their peepholes observing me, thinking perhaps that a mental patient had escaped from the local institution.

You see, I do talk to myself a lot and in this instance I was dropping the odd “F” bomb and mumbling expletive deletives. I do mumble rather loudly.

“How could I be so %$ # @ stupid. F-bomb! Geez, how am I gonna find my *& $ # 2 room!”

I thought maybe I could knock on a few doors, especially the ones that seemed familiar. But, I was barefoot, in sleep pants with a full day’s stubble on my face. I was also wearing one of my old tee-shirts that was less than pristine in appearance. Really, I looked like a grey haired 60 year old senior who had escaped from some kind of sketchy pajama party. After all, the clock was ticking towards midnight at breakneck speed.

My next strategy was to keep to the stairwells in an out-of-sight –out-of-mind kind of exploration. Maybe I’d recognize something that would, at the very least, get me on the proper floor. However, like any typical old guy under stress, I now had a tremendous urge to pee. The ice bucket I held in my hands was surely tempting solution to that.

I swear I didn’t give in to these urges.

Also, if you’ve never traversed a hotel stairwell at night you are in for some surprises. I met up with some sketchy characters as I went up and down in my random sprints of search and non-discovery. Like the dude talking on his cell phone in whispers, or the muscle head carrying a whiskey bottle in his hand, whistling some random tune. Of course, I also came upon a hovel of partiers (Wedding Reception) smoking up and doing lines in the first floor stairwell. I discovered there is a whole world of no good happening in these access routes after 10 o’clock at night. I’m surprised I didn’t pass other seniors looking for their rooms.

Finally, I decided that there was only one thing to do. I didn’t have a cell phone to text the good wife, I was keyless and really I was wandering aimlessly like as rat in a maze. I had to go to the front desk for help.

As I emerged in the front lobby I realized I must have looked really out of place. This is a Sheraton Four Points, a pretty classy looking place. The lobby was crowded with several well dressed people, several of whom were just checking in.

I approached a clerk who looked up in surprise and babbled, “Are you checking in, sir?”

Duh, ya right, I just flew in on a red eye and didn’t get a chance to change out of my PJ’s.

Instead, I whispered, “I can’t remember my room number and I need to you tell me that so I can go back to my family.”

To which the clerk replied, “Give me a minutes!” as she slipped into a connecting room, out-of-sight behind the counter.

I can just imagine what she was doing back there. Possibly she was calling the police to report this strange occurrence to the constabulary. I’m sure the desk sergeant simply said, “Don’t worry, mam, we get a lot of these calls, especially from mall parking lots. Just a lost senior, I’m thinking. Sometimes we drive them around to help them find their cars. The old guy is probably harmless.”

Indeed, upon her return she was very accommodating. We played 20 questions to determine if I had genuine credentials and a room at the hotel. Without ID, of course, this took a few minutes.

Finally she said, “You are in Room 432, sir!”

To which I replied, “Would you mind writing that on a piece of paper for me?”  You see, you have to be proactive in these situations, especially when you have “Oldtimer’s Disease”.

When I turned around to head back to room 432 those people in line behind me had shuffled well back from the counter and looked at me like someone being stalked by a zombie in Dawn of the Dead. At that moment I reached down to be sure that front gap in my sleep pants wasn’t exposing something naughty.

Well, I arrived back at the room about one hour after I had left and, yes, I did manage to score some ice. After telling my tale to the Phenom and the good wife, they could hardly contain themselves, laughing uproariously.

The boy actually cried out, “OH, my God, dad, I think I’m going to pee myself.”

But I’ll tell you one thing. That cheap scotch that I sipped tasted every bit as good as 12 year old single malt whisky that night.  After all, a sixty minute workout makes you quite thirsty, thank you very much.


Mark it down, Tuesday, April 28th, 2009; Grumpy had a date with Doctor Paul. Even though this wasn’t a “date” in the classical sense, it surely did felt like one. You see, once you become an old timer like me, the annual physical becomes an up close and personal encounter of the “Third Kind”.

Let me explain.

First of all you must understand that this isn’t your typical ten minute fully clothed oral consultation. We’re talking about a full thirty minutes of intimate probing along with a detailed diagnostic examination. The subject (me) sits/lays and bends half naked before his inquisitor, all the while wondering what indignities will come next.

One must prepare for this experience much as one would prepare for any intimate encounter. So, when I said “a date with my Doctor”, I’m talking about the same kind of attention to personal hygiene and cleanliness required for intimacy with your significant other.

Getting ready for the appointment has become somewhat ritualistic for me. First of all there is the trimming of the toenails; a chore I abhor, mainly because my toe nails have become as tough as shoe leather and as brittle as stale beef jerky. Each snip of brittle nail results in the launch of a lethal projectile. The thought of wearing safety glasses has crossed my mind but, for now, the prudent defense is a simple turn of the head and tightly closed eyes. I won’t even go into how difficult it is to get the clippers to those nails, given the state of my midriff.

Nose hairs are trimmed back lest one of those long locks carry a crusty booger of mammoth proportions. After all, the good Doctor will be spending a lot of time in my personal space.

The long bath takes care of the outer coverings while special attention to body cavities insures that the “peek and pokes” are pristine and odorless. I do notice that things that once floated in the tub no longer have their natural buoyancy. Such is life!

As I go through these machinations I constantly question my motives and more than once I call aloud, “This is not prep for a rendezvous with a woman for God’s sake. What are you thinking, man? ”

The question of cologne or no cologne always comes up and I have yet to find a solution. Cologne may mask other odors but what signal does it send to the good Doc? I think Doctor Paul once said that he had allergies. Maybe the expensive stuff with those pheromones will set him to sneezing. Hell, what if the scent itself gives him other ideas. Neither reaction would be good for my fully exposed near naked body.  I decide to go without.


Who wants to be sitting on the examination table with that froth that forms when you sweat running down out your pits? There are glands that have to be probed there, my friend. Standing before the wash basin, I fill the bowl and give the pits a second scrub. There will be no deodorant.

And then there are the questions the meander through my mind.

Will he think I look fat?

Will I lie when he asks how many drinks I have a week?

Will I feel my usual discomfort when we chat, me sitting there in my skivvies, he in a suit?

Will the snap of the rubber gloves cause me to whine like a little girl?

The funny thing is that after all of my preparation, these questions are causing me to break out in a drenching full body sweat. A glance at the clock tells me that there will be no time to jump in the shower for a quick “scrotal scrub”. Doctor Paul will have to “take me” as I am. (I know, that’s a poor choice of words!)

But, I am proud of myself. Not once have I let my mind drift to the good Doc’s favorite attempt at humor. “Well, Jim, now it’s time for your favorite part of the examination!”Did I mention my reaction to the snap of those rubber gloves? My sphincter quivers with the very thought of it!

As I step out into the crisp April air, I’m thinking that, if I left the house in this pristine condition every day of the week, my wife would be accusing me of having some kind of dalliance with loose women. I wonder what she’ll be thinking after I respond, “Don’t worry hon. I just have a date with my Doctor”.


Preened, primed and fully prepared, Grumpy leaves the house fully confident that he is ready for his date with Doctor Paul. He has allowed extra time to be sure that he is not tardy and late for the dreaded examination. Clutching a water bottle in his right hand (The pee on demand test), he dials the radio to ambient music of the relaxing kind. He hopes to subdue his blood pressure into a state akin to suspended animation.

The “a-hole” who pulls out from a side road causes him to brake heavily but does not cause Grumps to enact a road rage induced outburst. Nay! Nay! Grumpy is in a good place; his ying is in tune with his yang, each breath is exhaled slowly and his mind is clear of all negative thought. He is the master of his destiny.

Upon arrival at the clinic, he easily slips into a parking place mere steps from the entrance. He lucks in and finds the waiting room empty. His final meditation will begin unencumbered by the coughing and wheezing of flu bound allergic, congested sickos. Sitting perfectly still, eyes closed, he meditates quietly, confident that his blood pressure will read a perfect 120 over 80 and he will be one with the universe.

“Mr. Grumpy”, the PA crackles loudly.

“Shit”, he moans.

In a nanosecond, his pulse quickens, his sweat glands go into overdrive and all of the relaxation techniques in the world won’t stop the thumping in his chest. The Chamber of Horrors awaits him.

Grumpy is greeted at the reception desk by a pretty blond nurse who not only appears to be sixteen years old but also stands about four foot nothing. Her short and stocky patient feels as if he is as tall as an NBA post player.

“Step on the scale”, the nurse says in her Mickey-like voice. Grumpy ponders why all the young women he encounters appear childlike. It couldn’t be HIS advanced age, could it?

The cooperative patient pauses to remove his keys, cell phone and loose change from his pants lest these items add tonnage that would make a difference between approved weight and obesity.

The adolescent nurse declares, “One hundred and ninety four pounds”, such that all in earshot will have their suspicions confirmed. The dude standing on the scales is either a smurf or a Hobbit.

Handing him a paper cup and smiling demurely, she adds, “I’ll need you to fill this!”

Grumpy resists the temptation to respond with “Here?” or “With what?” as he slinks to the washroom cubby. He realizes that he has lost all control over the situation. This IS his Guantanamo.

After downing a full water bottle Grumpy is not surprised when his “stream” nearly jets the cup from his hand. Having to stop a “tinkle” before his cup runneth over, is no mean feat. Those Kegel exercises finally pay off, albeit for an entirely different purpose.

 A bold sign before him declares. WASH YOUR HANDS.  Well, I guess so, he thinks. A full body rain suit and a shower stall would have provided better protection and a more pristine sample.

 Grumpy carries the cup as if it is a chalice of fine wine, bows and places the sample on the reception counter as other patrons back away in disgust.

“Please wait here a moment,” Blondie says. “I have to clean up the examination room!”

Images of blood spattered walls, dripping lubricant and soiled latex gloves dance in Grumpy’s head. He decides that if he hears moans or chortled screams coming from any of the closed doors he’ll bolt like a spooked deer. A great sweat tsunami spreads out from each armpitcausing Grumps to regret that he chose a dark colored golf shirt for this encounter.

Seconds later, the ever-smiling nurse beckons with her finger. “Follow me, Mr. Grumpy. Everything is ready!”

With robot efficiency Grumpy ambles down the hall, the bright light from the open door drawing him forward with magnetic force. He’s been placed in the Pediatric examination room, whose walls are plastered with Disney graphics. In keeping with the environment, Grumpy slinks into the smallish chair like a reprimanded five year old.

Cutesy nurse, who appears to be enjoying her moment of complete domination whips out a blood pressure cuff, smiles, and waits for an extended arm. Fully submissive, the patient readily complies.

Grumpy could never understand why the good Doctor required these young maidens to take the initial pressure reading. It was obvious to him that the presence of these fantasy makers added a minimum of ten points to the reading.

 “Good”, she whispers. “120 over 80!”

Disappointed somewhat, Grumpy wonders if this is the Doc’s secret test for potential Viagra candidates. No matter, the blood pressure is good and that was the point of all of his preparations and meditations. The first hurdle has been passed.

“When I leave the room you should strip to your shorts.” she says, “Sit on the edge of the examination table and place this towel across your lap.”

There is something ritualistic to these words. Her rote dissertation has Grumpy remembering that there are other hurdles to jump. And, of course, there is the high jump that comes in the end. (No pun intended.)

As Grumpy reaches for his belt buckle, little Miss Happy, gives him her most flirtatious smile. “Doctor Paul will be with you in a minute.” she coos.

In the intervening minutes, Grumpy feels that maybe all of this isn’t as bad as a strip search at some remote border crossing or a spot check in some banana republic. “Senor, please drop your pants!”

Well, maybe so?

As he sits quietly on the edge of the table, feeling slightly chilled, his eyes are drawn to the neat row of paraphernalia the good nurse has prepared for Doctor Paul.

1. A rectangular pad with a large glob of lubricant glistening like crystal in the fluorescent lights.

2. Two blue latex gloves laying side by each like two severed hands, and,

3. A roll of paper towels of the type you might buy at Dollarama.

Grumpy takes a deep breath because there is be no turning back – except in the literal sense. He is fully prepared for this inquisition. Hell, without it, he can’t renew any of his meds and it is those little pills that keep him ticking.

The rumble in his belly from the coffee he drank reminds him of the effect of this liquid in terms of his morning routine. The words, “Coffee goes right through me!” flashes in his mind like a great neon window sign. Images of digitally induced explosions barely blunt the throbbing in his head. Could things get any worse?

A slight knock on the door and the words, “Are you decent?” gob smack our Grumpy back to the reality of his situation. If grown men were to cry, this surely would be the perfect moment.


Dr. Paul appears to be in his mid forties. He has a nice round face, usually covered with a light beard, but not today. Having not seen him for six months he appears to have lost weight and looks younger and more jovial. He greats Grumpy with a, “What can I do for you today?” just as cordially as if he asked, “Do you want fries with that?”

Grumpy answers, “My annual physical, Doc!” knowing well that these appointments are booked well in advance and duly noted on his chart. Grumpy will go with the flow considering he’s sitting half-naked on the edge of the examination table with a towel draped across his lap.

The door clicks behind Doctor Paul, but to Grumps, the sound is as foreboding as a squeaking door from Tales from the Crypt.

Dr. Paul quickly slides into a chair and begins pecking at the keyboard that rests in front of his computer monitor.

“Let’s begin by updating your file,” he says.

Grumpy quickly recognizes that the “Dreaded 50 Questions”, otherwise known as the grand inquisition, is about to begin. His private life is about to be exposed like an open wound. The question is whether he tells the whole truth or nothing but the truth. Everything will depend on the question, he suspects!

Most of these questions have been asked before and require either a “yes” or “no” response until, of course, the Doctor delves to the “iffy” grey areas.

For example, “How many alcoholic drinks do you have in a week?”

“Oh, five or six,” Grumpy says, in a manner that is so well rehearsed he suspects even the Pope would believe him. After all, there were several weeks in the year where five or six drinks would be the appropriate response. Grumpy can’t remember if this would be one of them. No matter.

“Any trouble getting or maintaining an erection?”

“Only when I have more than six drinks,” Grumpy offers.

Peering over his spectacles, Dr Paul gives that look only first grade teachers are licensed to express.

“Ah, no problems there,” the chastised patient whispers.

“Have you ever had a bowel movement that looks like coffee grounds?”


Grumpy has the feeling that Ashton Krushner is somewhere in the wings about to leap into the room, just as Old Grumps is about to hammer the good Doc with a roundhouse right.

“No!” is his more appropriate and less violent response. Just the same, his eyes scan the room looking for Ashton’s hiding place, or at very least, a hidden camera.

Rising from the chair with a slow turn Doctor Paul says, “Swing your legs over the end of the table”, indicating that this examination is about to become hands on. The touchy feely part is about to begin.

Grumpy tears the paper sheet that covers the table when he twists around on his fat ass. He scrambles to tuck the shredded paper bits under his butt, hoping the Doctor doesn’t notice.

A light tap with a rubber mallet and Grump’s right leg jumps as if zapped with an electric shock. Three hits on the left knee and his leg dangles there like a side of beef in a slaughter house. Grump’s is thinking, “My God, I’ve had a stroke and wasn’t even aware of it!” The fourth hit, taken with an extended back swing, finally gets that old leg to twitch.

When the Doc shines his light into Grumpy’s ears he remarks, “You can tell your mother that your ears are clean!”

It seems as if the Doc’s bedside manner includes lame attempts at humor. Grumpy knows better. He’s just setting the stage for further indignities.

The Doctor’s, “You can lie on your back now”, sets Grumpy’s heart to racing. There is no turning back now, except, of course, in a literal sense.

The Doc pushes and probes the abdomen like he’s kneading bread dough. Grumpy knows he has sufficient quantities to feed the throngs who came to hear the Sermon on the Mount. Then, as Dr. Paul probes the liver area, Grumpy awaits the Doc’s surprised expression when he discovers the organ is bigger than the six drink minimum suggested by his patient. When there is no obvious reaction, Grumps resolves that a few more drinks a week probably won’t hurt him.

Doctor Paul’s hand slides to the towel and pulls it down slightly. His warm hand rests on the lower abdomen in a precariously intimate position. Grumpy hopes the man-scaping he performed has left the area in a pristine condition.

Before he can say, “EEEK!”, the Doctor says cough, and the hernia examination is done for another year. It goes without saying that our Grumps turned away in order that there was no hope of eye contact.

“Now for your favorite part of the examination,” the Doctor jokes.

Grumpy has heard the speech before and, before the Doctor can say it again, he rolls on his side to face the wall, pulls down his boxers and draws his knees up to his chest. He remembers when “mooning” someone used to be fun and the “pressed ham” was one of his specialties. He sees no humor in his current situation. In fact, he gets that icy feeling in his sphincter, the one you get when you witness someone like Johnny Knoxville push a needle through his scrotum.

The snap of the rubber gloves has Grumpy shutting his eyes and counting backward from one hundred. You see, he once had a dentist who used this hypnotic technique in lieu of Novocain.  No matter that the same Dentist was charged with molesting female patients. Jim is confident Doctor Paul is heterosexual.

“Ok, Mr. Grumpy, this may cause some discomfort,” Doctor Paul suggests. Grumpy remembers that Doctor Paul talks to him throughout this entire procedure. It’s as if the good Doc himself must yammer away to avoid his own nervousness.

“Ok, I’ going to sweep the colon,”   he says matter-of-factly. Sweeping away, he decides to add, “Feels good there!”

Well, that depends on your perspective. It feels as if he stretched Grumpy’s anus to the diameter of a birth canal.  He wants to shout, “You didn’t tell me you were going to reach up to touch my tonsils, you pervert!”

The Doctor’s rap doesn’t skip a beat. “Now, I’ll just feel for the prostrate. Good size, very supple. Feels as if everything is in good condition!”

Grumpy wants to proudly tell him that he tries to use that gland whenever possible, often taking matters into his own hand. Problem is, his eyes and mouth are shut so tight the only thing that emanates from his mouth is a highly inappropriate,


And just like that, Bing-bodda-boo-bodda bing, the digital exam is over. The fickle finger of fate has done its job once more.

The next thing Grumpy knows, he’s dressed, sitting in a chair and talking to the Doc as if they were old friends chewing the fat over a cold beer. Thank God the Doc didn’t pull out a cigarette or the whole ambiance of the moment would be lost.

Grumpy is happy he’s passed the annual physical with flying colors. As he waddles to his car, trying to ignore the tingling in his posterior, he wonders why so many men are afraid, or unwilling to get these annual examinations. Maybe he’ll write about it, he’s thinking. There has to be some humor in all of this. In fact, to get his point across in a humorous way, he’ll make himself the “butt” of the joke.