The Chamber of Compression and Size "Elephant"

My girlfriend shared with me a comparison she recently read of, that likened the Mammogram Experience to running your boob over with a car.  Although I imagine people do have some discomfort, today, after my second-annual “Breast sandwiching,” I still feel fine. 

Today, the first attendant I met led me to a changing room. He went in one room, “Looks like we’re out of gowns,” he said. 

He went in another room, “We’re out here too.” I started to wonder how prepared they were for incoming patients, when,

“Here we go.” I closed the door and lifted the gown to put it on. It was the largest, most humongous, mongo-spacious gown I’d ever seen. I could fit my entire family in it…after a Thanksgiving dinner. They weren’t out of gowns in those other rooms; they were out of size “Elephant” gowns. My well-meaning attendant had done his best to be discreet, but the proof of his opinion of my size versus their standard garments was the flowing, flowered tent presented to me. At least I was covered up…

…but not for long.

When I was in the actual x-ray room, a technician positioned me in the “George Formal Transparent Tit and Panini Flattening Iron” and squeezed--tight. I looked down and saw that my boob was the size of a big foot. I decided that mental snapshot would make a good “WHAT IS THIS?” picture in some book.


“Is it a butternut squash?” someone might guess.

No…it’s not a squash.

“The Flesh Nebula?” someone else inquires.

Nope.

I wish we had drive-thru Mammograms. Some fast-food establishment could affiliate itself with a hospital radiology department. You’d roll down your car window at private Station 1, insert (like into one of those bank roll-a-drawers), flatten, repeat, then proceed to Station 2, grab some fries and a drink, and then your results (and cashier) would be ready for you at Station 3. Benefits of this idea would include being able to listen to car music, wear your own gown and have a little lunch too. There’d have to be some strict screening in terms of hiring, of course. I wouldn’t want some sweaty, untrained teenager handling my merchandise.

A sweaty untrained teenager could definitely hand me my fries, though.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Did you SEE that Half-Naked Woman in the Bakery Aisle?

Job Applicant Olympics

Men in Wet Shorts