Witz DOESN'T Pick: Dermatologist Humor

As a man who wasn't big on the sun, and not worried about the quality of his skin, I never felt it was necessary to go to the dermatologist. After my girlfriend pointed out a curious mole that she described by saying, "I think your mole is growing a mole," I decided I might as well book an appointment and make sure that I didn't have the c-word...er-- you know which one I mean. Fortunately for me and my wallet, the whole experience was baffling and horrible and I won't be shelling out the co-pay for future appointments.

I guess the one thing I always assumed about all medical professions, be it a physician, a pediatrist, a dermatologist, a dentist, or a psychiatrist, was that they didn't make fun of you for having any of the things you had. When my small, hobbit-looking dermatologist walked into the room, I felt safe. Then he started in on what I can only describe as a Dermatological Improv Comedy Routine. The conversation went something like this:

"Hi, I'm Dr. Whatever."
"Hi, I'm Witz."
"Would you like to change into a gown or just take off your shirt?"
"I'm fine just taking off my shirt," I say, starting to unbutton it.
"Great-- you didn't look like a guy with any shame left..." He drops casually, like if he said it with the proper tone I wouldn't notice that just made fun of me. It kinda worked.
"Huh?"
"Now it looks like you've got some sun damage on your back there-- but I'm guessing you don't spend much time out in the sun anymore..." Zing! The dude was scoring points off me left and right!
"No, not really."
"Didn't think so."
"What about the mole?"
"Wow, this is interesting! It actually looks like you have two different groupings of cells, one within the other."
"My girlfriend described it as looking like a mole was growing on my mole..."
"Anything to distract her from all that hair, am I right?" Now that's a straight up punchline right there. He had to have been waiting on it.
"I'll lob em up and you slam em down," I say deadpan.
"What about your chest," he says, and I wish I hadn't provoked him.
"I'm fine, no moles there."
"What about this right here?" He asks and examines it intently. He's pointing to my chest like you would if you were playing a "made you look" joke on somebody. I think for a minute that he might be setting me up and if I look down he'll bop me in the nose with his finger, but then I remember he's a doctor and wouldn't go THAT far, right? I reach to see where he's pointing, slightly below my left pectoral muscle. Now, my chest is not rock hard, but it's not a "problem area" for me. I have some muscle and some strength there. But I freeze suddenly, as I realize that all of a sudden, I'm cupping and moving what man-boob I do have in order to see where he's pointing. Still frozen like that, I realize what he's done, and I look up to meet his gaze. With a mischievous smile on his face he tells me,
"I'm wondering if that's a mole, or a remnant of a third nipple..." and he wins. I have been 100% emasculated by this hobbit-man who I looked down upon and trusted (both literally). He waits a second for his ownership to sink in before adding, "Then again, it might just be a mole..." I think I'm off the hook, since I'm clearly his, but he decides he wants a trophy. Whipping out his digital camera, he snaps off a few photos, "just so we can see if it changes in six month," and adds, "Don't worry, I won't put these on the internet." I give him a courtesy chuckle before he continues, "Though I don't know ANYONE who would wanna look at these pictures!"

We both smile, his of victory, mine to show defeat, and he walks out of the office, leaving me shirtless and alone in the sterile waiting room. It's just me and the analscopes, and for a minute, I feel like we must feel similar-- after all, we both have had too many encounters with assholes.

I put on my shirt and I leave. Broken. Confused. No longer safe. I leave.

-Witz-