Today as the mammo lady was flipping my breasts all over to get the best view, I said, "If men had to get mammos, they would have come up with a less painful way to do it by now."
She said, "I don't know about that, men still have to get prostate exams."
I guess she'd heard my line before.
My breasts are little tramps.
They don't know fun fondling from medical fondling.
There they were, perky and happily being handled when suddenly the crusher came on and they were pressed into painful pancakes on the chilled mammo machine.
They always raise the platen too high and you have to tiptoe, lest your squashed breast rips off. Then they make you put your arm in a position nature did not intend for it to be in. Face it, it's an awkward procedure from start to finish.
After the ordeal was over, I dressed and left, free of residual pain.
Now three hours later, my girls are kind of sore and I feel sad for them.
But It could have been worse.
At least this time I didn't get the bulldyke mammographer with the mustache who spends far too much time "positioning" the girls.