The Haven
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The Haven


Prostates With Teeth

They don’t like to be fingered

Chris Richards, Flickr

Michigan proctologists have encountered prostates with hair, mouths and teeth. They’re warning men to deal with the situation carefully, else it’ll bite them in the ass.

The doctors practice on the Leelanau, a peninsula in Michigan’s Up North known for vast cherry orchards, miles of Lake Michigan beaches, and men who have funny stuff up their booties.

That’s partly because of how they use toilet paper. Most American men are “folders.” They minimize TP consumption by swiping their bums with just three folded sheets. Leelanau men are “wadders.” They hate the idea of touching their doodie. So to put as much space between it and their fingers, they wipe their backsides with wads of TP. Yes, this approach is risky. If a guy pushes the TP tween his cheeks too hard, some gets shoved up his Hershey Highway. In that event, it may take a brontofart or two to clear the resulting logjam.

The other reason for junk in men’s trunks is bad luck. After all, anyone can get their wife’s vibrator stuck in their outpipe. Stick the deodorant in too far while trying to control crack wetness. Fumble the My Shiney Hiney® brush while buffing their butt cheeks. Lose a bottle of Wite-Out® in their caboose while lightening their o-ring. Or get barbecue tongs stuck in their stern while trying to pull the other things out.

The wackiest thing in men’s keisters is the prostate gland. For the benefit of those unfamiliar with it, the prostate, as one doctor put it, “supplies the broth in a guy’s man-chowder. The stuff which lets him ejaculate, prematurely or otherwise. The fluid without which a wet dream would be dry.”

As men grow old, their prostates become pesky buggers. Its ridiculous: just as a guy’s turtle is retreating into its shell, his prostate gets too big for his britches. For the average man, an enlarged prostate is a nuisance: it makes him urinate frequently at night, and dribble during the day.

A Leelanau man’s plumbing is different. As his testosterone decreases, his prostate morphs into something akin to a teratoma, a tumor containing stray sperm cells. The genetic material in the cells causes the tumor to grow human features like hair, bone, muscle, mouths, and teeth. A garden-variety teratoma stops there. A teratoma-like prostate develops one thing more: an attitude. A bad attitude. And it’s towards the rectum next door.

It’s easy to understand why. The rectum is the conduit by which the prostate is subjected to inappropriate touching. It doesn’t matter that doctors recommend it. Or that men willingly assume the position. It’s uninvited fingering. To make matters worse, doctors don’t light scented candles, turn on soft music, put satin sheets on the exam table, or sprinkle it with rose petals. They don’t even offer to buy the prostate a drink. They just plunge in their finger, work it hard and fast, whip off the glove, and move on to someone’s else’s prostate.

When the purple plum morphs into a Frankenprostate, it can’t go after the doctor. But it’s definitely payback time for the poop chute.

Ironically, the first sign of a prostate gone wild is sewer burps. Granted, a prostate may have nothing to do with them. A guy may have downed kombucha cocktails during Happy Hour. Eaten four helpings of lutefisk lasagne for dinner. And washed them down with a six-pack of kimchi beer. The resulting fumes have to be belched; they’re too noxious to fart. Exactly how nasty must fanny gas be for that to happen? Scientists don’t know. All they can say is “Anything your ass rejects has gotta be bad.”

Typically, however, such belches are produced by a Frankenprostate. As poo gas roars down the rectum on its way to becoming a butt yodel, the prostate grabs the crap chute and twists it shut. The resulting back pressure blows the fart up the colon, through the intestines, into the stomach, up the esophagus, and out the mouth. It sounds like a burp. But it smells like a thunder-from-down-under. It can also be dangerous: if a man’s smoking a cigarette, he’ll burp a blue flame. But if he purses his lips to keep the belch quiet, he can avoid dirty looks by blaming a dog.

A Frankenprostate can also mess with a guy when he tries to make boom-boom. Say his bowels are feeling weighty one morning, on account of having three helpings of spaghetti for dinner last night. To eliminate the problem, he eats a Jethro bowl of steel-cut oats, washes them down with eight cups of cowboy coffee, sits on the potty, and pushes.

Problem is, the prostate may push back. Just as the mud starts to rumble past it, the prostate may lower its shoulder, drive head-first into the rectum, and crimp it like a cheap garden hose. That’ll bring the poop train to an immediate halt. To get it rolling again, a man may need to pop ex-lax® for a few days. However, if he’s taken high school math, he can work out the problem with a Number 2 pencil.

Fortunately, men can avoid this intestinal mayhem. All they have to do is make nice with their prostates.

For starters, stop antagonizing it. When its time for an exam, don’t let the doctor do their usual “cram bam thank you gland.” Have them introduce themselves to your prostate. Welcome it to today’s fingering. Ask how it’s feeling. Then have the doctor give it a slow finger-whirl. Or curl their finger to make a come-hither motion, which is pleasing to prostate and man alike.

Even more important, a man must build a healthy relationship with his prostate. The key is open and honest communication. Listen to its needs; feel free to express yours. Luckily, Leelanau men are used to that. That’s why one often sees guys seated in restroom stalls at bars, bent over with their heads tween their legs, their faces in ass-kissing range of their patooties, making small-talk with their prostates before doing their business.

Be assured, it’s worth the effort. A butt-gland with teeth can do more than mess with a man’s tailpipe. It may only do something that’s tongue in cheek. But if it’s angry, it’ll chew your ass.



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Miss Catherine La Grange, spinster

Miss Catherine La Grange, spinster


Retired high school social studies teacher in Michigan’s Up North. I’m a Presbyterian spinster, but I’m no Angel.