I suppose you people think you’re going to start a euphemisms-for-privates thread down in the comments. Well, you’re right. I’ll start with a brief anecdote:
An old neighbor of mine had a cousin who worked at a medical answering service, the people who pass your messages along to the doc on call. Because they’re calling the doctor out of a sound sleep and/or off the golf course, they’re instructed to ask minimal questions about the problem. So one night this woman calls and simply doesn’t want to say why she wants her gyno to get back to her ASAP. Hem, haw, etc. Finally the cousin says, “If you won’t tell us anything at all, we’re not allowed to call the doctor. Really, it’s OK” and the woman blurts out “MY TWAT ITCHES!” and hangs up.
They all had a good roll around the floor laughing at that one, and then the doctor, who was in the building, stops by for his messages. They’re still laughing, he asks why, they tell him and he says, “Hmm, I guess no one told her the medical term. Muffin.”
That story doesn’t read as funny as it tells, especially early in the morning with no alcohol, but that’s my contribution: Muffin.
And that’s it, because now I have to get ready for my long-overdue MRI of the right knee, which has been hurting for a year now. My MRI order reads “internal derangement,” which describes me many days, I think. Anyway, I think I’ll take a shower, shave my legs and strip all metal from my body. I’ll likely be back, but if you’re not — have a great long weekend.