PROSTATE TO THE HIGHER MIND

Theres an episode of Cheers where Sam has to get a physical. When he returns to the
bar, Diane asks, Oh Sam, what did the doctor say? to which Sam replies, Same thing he
always does: Wow! For many frustrating years I tried to get my wife to correctly set me up
for that punchline. She never quite got it right, and gave me many versions of, How did your
appointment go? or How was the doctors today? Finally, she got it right. Unfortunately, my
response had to be, He said, Wow, you might have prostate cancer. Not the response she
wanted to hear or I wanted to deliver. It just wasnt that funny.
My primary care physician is sort of a dont-get-your-hands-dirty type of doctor. I
frequently leave his office dissatisfied at his level of invasiveness. We established a few years
earlier that he does not administer prostate exams I was diagnosed based on a blood test and
biopsy performed by a urologist, which I will describe in excruciating detail later.
His rationale: Ive only diagnosed prostate cancer through an exam once in twenty
years.
My response was to gently point out that the odds of him diagnosing the condition were
drastically reduced by his REFUSAL TO CONDUCT THE EXAM.
No testicular cancer exams either.
Noah, I taught you how to self-examine years ago.
He trusts me to diagnose my own cancer when I cant even take the temperature of the
room?
Turn-and-cough hernia exams? Nope. But lets face it, its not the turning and coughing
you remember. I was born with a double hernia and had surgery when I was five. When he felt a
slight protrusion, he sent me to a specialist who prescribed careful neglect.

My doctor does the poor mans colonoscopy tantamount to submitting a stool sample,
which I have to collect and mail to the lab. I wanted an actual colonoscopy, because Katie
Couric said I should have one, and Ill do anything Katie Couric says.
I am a bit of a perfectionist, and always want to present my best shit (this piece
notwithstanding). I knew my stool would be graded on color, texture, and shape probably not
taste and smell, but you never know. Is it fair to judge the feces of somebody so incredibly anal?
I longed for the year when I abstained from drinking coffee and my stool was absolutely sublime.
The first inclination I got that there may have been a problem was from my prostatespecific antigen (PSA) test results. Elevated levels of PSA can be associated with prostate
cancer. To my doctors credit, he had asked me to follow up after the previous years results
indicated an unexpected increase. At the time he advised of the importance of making a correct
diagnosis, although after his description of the loss of urinary control and impotence experienced
following treatment, it was hard to fathom a positive outcome. Since the results had remained in
the normal range, I ignored his sage advice.
I could not turn a blind eye to an increase from 2.7 to 6.54 this go around, especially
when the upper end of the normal range was 4. The news was delivered via a simple,
confidential email including two referrals to urologists who were on my health plan. When I
read the email I immediately got a sinking feeling, and wondered if news of that gravity should
have at least warranted a phone call. Still, he potentially saved my life.
So it was, in fact, the urologist who delivered infamous, Wow line. I was surprised to
find myself seeing a urologist at forty-five years old and in great shape. The minute I walked
into his office I announced that, Somebody is going probe my rectum today, and Im not leaving

until they do! He was a bit taken aback, but hey, he signed up for this crap by specializing in
urology. I tried to temper the sentiment.
Im not going to enjoy this any more than you will its not like youre my wife.
I should have been careful what I wished for, because in the coming months I would be
getting all manner of things placed in my ass and enduring multiple prostate exams. For those
not familiar, a prostate exam is also referred to as a Digital Rectal Exam or DRE (insert Dr. Dre
joke here). Digital meaning a finger well, by now Im sure youve figured out the rest.
Heterosexual men have a real problem with anybody coming near their asses, and
certainly dont want anything put inside of them. It never made sense to me, but for some reason
they feel that the sexual act defines their sexual orientation. Homosexual men kiss each other
and engage in oral sex, and heterosexual men do not have a problem with either of those
activities they will never turn down a blowjob. Its whos preforming the act that is the
distinguishing factor, not the act itself. If a man enjoys a little ass play, or any other sexual act
from a man, he is probably gay. If he enjoys it from a woman, he is probably straight. That said,
a DRE is not a sexual act. It is not enjoyable whether delivered by a male or female healthcare
provider.
The doctor then asked me a series of standard questions about urinary and sexual
functioning, my answers to which all seemed normal.
Do you urinate often?
Yes, but I always have, even before my PSA increased.
OK, does it hurt when you ejaculate?
Occasionally, when the handcuffs are too tight.
The urologist shook his head in frustration

Oh, you mean does my penis hurt when I ejaculate. Well, sometimes when there is a
long build up and I come really hard
The urologist shook his head again, now visibly annoyed.
it hurts, but in a good way. Like that John Cougar Mellencamp song. Was he Cougar
Mellencamp when he wrote that one, or just Cougar? I dont think he was Mellencamp
yet.
I sensed his frustration reaching a fever pitch and I became incensed.
I literally eat an apple a day. Why are you even here?!
You were the one who made the appointment, and this is my office
He then announced it was time for the rectal exam. Finally. He conducted the procedure,
like Arthur Fiedler I might add, and took some blood for a more precise PSA remeasurement. He
informed me that he wanted to retest the PSA level because certain factors unrelated to cancer
could cause abnormal readings the most notable of which was ejaculation, painful or otherwise,
48 hours prior to the test. I had not had the pleasure in the last two days, but consoled myself
that I must have two days prior to my original test. He said that if my levels were still too high I
would have to come in for a biopsy, and I should make a tentative appointment. As I was
leaving, his tone softened.
See you on the 10th.
My ass you will, I replied like a deranged Yoda.
In the week before I received my second PSA result I was able to convince myself that
the initial reading was an anomaly, a false positive, and I adopted a false positive outlook.
Optimism has been shown to improve medical outcomes, and I reasoned that it wasnt too late to
take preventative measures. I feverishly read up on prostate cancer prophylaxis. I love tomato-

based products, and they are recommended for prostate health. Time to get my lycopene on!
Maybe this was an opportunity to drink all the coffee I wanted, because one of the journals said it
was an effective antioxidant. I better choose that stool sample first. Also, ejaculation has been
theorized to clean the carcinogens out of the system.
Honey, we need to talk
I cant say I was shocked to hear the bad news the following week, and it didnt help my
anxiety level that I was wired from all that caffeine. So it was back to the maestro for a biopsy.
To stave off potential infection, I had to ingest a giant antibiotic pill, and self-administer an
enema again, one of many to come.
These are my three issues with the enema self-administration process: 1) Maintaining the
required fetal position for a sufficient amount of time without cramping, 2) Determining the
correct volume of saline solution to use the entire contents seemed excessive, 3) Identifying the
moment when my bowels were adequately evacuated.
I found myself back in the office on the 10th in downward dog on the examining table
with my underwear at my ankles. The doctor explained that samples of my prostate tissue would
be taken in a checkerboard configuration, and made a point to inform me that there will be blood.
My initial thought was that it seemed more like Boogie Nights due to my prone position and the
object being inserted in my anus. About halfway through the procedure, which you can image is
somewhat painful, the doctor tuned to the nurse and said, The anatomy is gorgeous. I am still
not sure what he meant. Either he was commenting on my prostate, which would mean it would
be a shame to have to remove it, or he was saying I had a nice ass, which I had devoted countless
hours of physical activity to sculpt. Despite the ambiguity, I felt a surge of pride.

After the biopsy was completed, I was given what amounted to a large wad of paper
towels to soak up the blood, and a large diaper to wear over the paper towels to catch any
leakage. Off to work I went. Like most New York City commutes, mine entailed the traversing
of several staircases. It was while ascending the steepest staircase that I felt it a rush of blood
to the thighs. This would be a work from home day. I ducked into a public bathroom, cleaned
the blood off my legs, readjusted the paper towels, tightened the diaper, and self-consciously
took the subway back to my apartment. The humiliation hit parade was underway.
I tried to remain hopeful, and even planned a margarita madness night to celebrate my
negative test results, but in the two weeks that followed there were a series of disheartening
signs. Steve Lavin had to take an extended leave of absence as head coach of the St. Johns
basketball team due to treatment for his prostate cancer (I was overjoyed when he returned to
CBS that spring to provide commentary for March Madness); New Routine by Fountains of
Wayne kept playing on my iPod in shuffle mode (They talk about real estate, prostates,
Costco); the crossword puzzle clue asked for a zodiac sign, which I knew had to start with
C, and there were not enough spaces for Capricorn (Billy Ray Valentine, Capricorn.).
Two days before my forty-sixth birthday I got the news. I had taken that Friday off for a
long celebratory weekend, and was told I would receive a call with my results that afternoon. As
it neared 5:00 PM, I thought I should be proactive and call the doctors office. I wasnt sure I
would make it through the weekend without knowing. It turns out that doctors save the bad news
calls for last.
The feeling wasnt one of disbelief exactly, but it was definitely surreal. I was pissed off
and almost punched a hole in my bathroom wall. I futilely tried to comfort myself by repeatedly

pronouncing benign and malignant like Alec Baldwin in that Saturday Night Live soap opera
actor sketch. My emotions started to run wild. First I became contemplative.
Ive lived a long life. How many people can say they have witnessed the evolution of
trendy vodkas from Stoli, through Absolute, and Kettle One, all the way to Belvedere, Grey
Goose and Ciroc?
Then I became indignant.
There is no way Im dying in my mid-forties if Keith Richards is still alive. And look at
all the fat slobs out there; I work out at least three times a week. This cant be happening!
I didnt cancel the indoor triathlon I had scheduled for that Sunday. The year before,
upon turning forty-five, I decided to compete in triathlons as a fuck you to the aging process,
and conveniently there was an indoor series annually on my birthday. In my haze, I decided to
use the diagnosis as motivation.
If I pedal fast enough, I bet I can create enough centrifugal force to destroy the tumor!
Now the hard part; telling my family. My kids still dont know, although my older son
has his suspicions. They do know that I am writing about my surgery and are curious to read
about it, for which I have a standard reply.
Do you want to see me naked?
NO!
Then you dont want to read what I am writing.
My wife, in an attempt to preserve her sanity, I suppose, always minimized the chances of
my having cancer. She was convinced it was an impossibility. Ominously, I had to take her to
the emergency room the night before I received my results. She had suffered what turned out to

be the only migraine of her life (It is not a tumor at all, at least for one of us). When I broke
the news it felt like I was the one consoling.
Prostate cancer is very treatable. Its one of the best cancers you can get.
I then had to discuss the more delicate issue of the potential negative effects on sexual
performance. I have to give her credit here; she tried to keep a straight face. But then she burst
out laughing. It was not the kind of uncomfortable laughter you sometimes hear when a person
doesnt quite know how to deal with a situation, but an unbridled laughter heretofore only
exhibited when she was with her sisters or a silly dance scene broke out in a movie or television
show. (Strangely, flash mobs dont do it for her). My first reaction was to get a little offended,
because to me her giddiness translated to, Performance, what performance? Then I started
laughing along with her because, who was I kidding, she had been carrying us sexually for our
entire relationship. It turns out that laughter is both an addictive and curative substance my
drug of choice.
At the time of my diagnosis I worked on the Wellness team of a well-known corporation.
The firm was one likely to receive derision in the lyrics of Bruce Springsteen, but they sure knew
how to take care of their own. I was set up with an appointment to see the Chairman of
Urological Cancer Surgery at Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center. The Chairman of the
department! I was somewhat disturbed by the fact that everybody was referring to the institution
as Memorial. I had always referred to it as Sloan Kettering, and did not want to be reminded
that a memorial was the possible outcome of my illness. Sloan at least evoked the imagery of
Emmanuelle Chriqui from Entourage, which I found comforting in a number of different ways.
They are exceedingly thorough at Sloan Kettering. Before my appointment with Dr.
Chairman, they asked me to get an MRI so they could pinpoint the exact location and size of the

tumor. This wasnt an ordinary MRI; this was an MRI with rectal coil. What is an MRI with
rectal coil, you ask? Excellent question, although Im not sure you want to know the answer. An
MRI with rectal coil is a regular MRI with a twist. Before you get in the machine, they insert a
thin, illuminated rod in your rectum, to get as clear a picture as possible of the area in question.
The good news was that they gave me headphones and let me listen to the music of my choice
during the hour long procedure. I chose Alive and Wired by Old 97s, because I wanted to stay
alive and was clearly wired, but mostly because its just good time music. I recommend it if you
are ever in a similar situation, or just want to rock out.
To compound an already uncomfortable situation, I had a cold. The technician had told
me beforehand that if I made any significant movements during the MRI it would ruin the film
and might have to be redone. Three quarters of the way through I was timing by song length,
which I pretty much had memorized I felt a cough coming on. I did my best to suppress it, but
a little slipped out a harbinger of things to come. And there was movement. Not enough to
dislodge the coil, but movement still. I was waiting for them to bust into the room and tell me,
That was great, lets go again, but they didnt. I guess the technician was able to fix it in post.
Dr. Chairman met us in a regular examining room. I was expecting to be sitting in front
of a huge oak desk with a view of the East River. He was affable and void of any of the
arrogance sometimes associated with surgeons of his stature. My wife joined to review my
treatment options, which were presented in ascending order of invasiveness.
The first option is active surveillance
Active surveillance? No offense, Dr. Chairman, but you just gave me an MRI with a
flashlight shoved up my ass. How much more active can surveillance get?

Dr. Chairman proceeded to explain that active surveillance was also known as watchful
waiting, and since the tumor was encapsulated in the prostate and relatively small, there was no
real urgency. He then went through the litany of other treatments:
1) Hormone therapy Slows down the cancer by starving it of the testosterone it needs to grow.
2) Radiation Destroys the cancer through a process of implanting radioactive seeds. It was
the procedure that successfully treated Rudy Giuliani.
3) Surgery Robotic, which has a quicker recovery time, and regular open surgery.
I knew right away that watchful waiting was out. What was I waiting for the cancer to
spread? It was time to curb my passivity.
Hormone therapy was mostly used with older men who wanted to slow the growth process
long enough for them to outlive the cancer, and I was counting on fifty-five more years.
The idea of having the cancer to remain inside of me, even though it had been radiated,
creeped me out. What if it reanimated?
Dr. Chairman thought I would be a good candidate for surgery, and elucidated the reasons.
You are relatively young, you are in good shape, you have a long urethra
At which point I looked at my wife and replied, Thats what she said.
Not my best moment socially or comedically. Dr. Chairman took it with good humor, but I
may have irritated my wife by chanting, The MRI doesnt lie, The MRI doesnt lie all the
way home. Hey, I was scared and needed a boost. I actually dont have any misapprehensions
about my endowment.
In a Women We Love issue of Esquire magazine, a noted fashion photographer (Richard
Avedon, perhaps?) described the versatility of Cindy Crawfords breasts they could seem big
and voluptuous when he needed them to, or small and perky if they were required to fit into a

10

particular outfit for a particular shoot. I aspire to have my penis described in the same vein.
What it lacks in magnitude, it makes up in adaptability. Its like a utility man on a baseball team;
it can play in many positions.
Surgery seemed like the right option for me, and not just because I was charmed by the
urethra comment. Still, I had a few questions.
Do you just remove the tumor?
No, we remove the whole structure.
So we are saying to the cancer, Fuck you and the prostate you rode in on!?
You might say that. I wouldnt, but you might.
Now the robot, what are we talking, the maid from The Jetsons, Gigantor, or some sort
of BattleBot?
None of those.
Dr. Chairman had incredible patience.
The surgeon controls the instruments from behind a console where he has magnified
view of the area.
Like a video game?
Not exactly
So if he makes a wrong move does a buzzer go off like in the game Operation?
I imagined they would be playing Rockit by Herbie Hancock during the surgery.
The procedure is officially called a radical prostatectomy radical as in extreme due
to the removal of the entire prostate. This obliterated my formerly positive association with
chillin at the beach and catching gnarly waves, but reinforced the new radical connotation of not
giving up and having a reason to live.

11

Before I left the office I agreed to participate in a research study about prostate cancer
treatment choices, and was given an initial questionnaire to complete. The purpose, as far as I
could tell, was to determine if a patients treatment choice aligned with his tolerance for the
corresponding side effects. The questions were like a perverse game of Would You Rather, and
went something like this:
Would you rather have vastly diminished sexual drive or impotence?
Are you more concerned about the possible spread of your cancer or anal leakage?
Please rank the following potential side effects in order from most abhorrent to least
abhorrent: A) Anal leakage B) Spread of cancer outside the prostate C) Impotence D)
Lack of sexual desire E) Incontinence
These are my choices?!
I decided to try my luck with impotence and incontinence. There were several
medications I could take for impotence, and I was informed that incontinence was only a shortterm outcome. The idea that I would not be able to control my bladder seemed ridiculous to me,
and I never had a problem with impotence. In fact, the opposite is true. I have an incredibly
strong physical attract to my wife that has shown no signs of waning over the years. So much so
that once I got a semi while giving her a consoling hug at a funeral. Dont judge, my penis
didnt know she was in mourning.
Good preparation is the key to any successful relationship, and we had developed backup
plans in case either one of us tragically lost our ability to function sexually. The specter of my
potential impotence filled my wife with equal parts of consternation and excitement. This was
because her designated backup was Lenny Kravitz, and it was binding. We had documented it
in Hebrew in our Ketubah the Jewish marriage contract so Lenny could probably read every

12

other word. My choice in the event my wife was stricken coincidentally, also Lenny Kravitz.
The guy is amazing looking. But I am thinking about amending the agreement to Lake Bell. I
mean, have you seen In a World? Its a perfect movie.
My hope was for just the right amount of nerve damage to allow me to get really hard
without medication, but eliminate the need for my ever having to resort to picturing the obese,
bearded nurse I once worked with to prolong the enjoyment. Calculating the probable number of
points Manchester City would have to earn for the rest of the season to win the Premiership
worked to a certain extent, however the prospect of City hoisting the trophy tended to intensify
the excitement. If I had only mastered Stings patented tantric breathing techniques.
It was during Citys first title season in 44 years that I was diagnosed. The season was
excruciating, as most City seasons are, but also incredibly joyous with the 6-1 creaming of
United at Old Trafford and Ageros miracle title winner. Being aware of my condition for the
second half of the campaign cast a pall over the proceedings. The fan chants I loved to sing in
our supporters bar, The Mad Hatter, took on a different meaning, and it was hard to belt them
out with my previous vigor. Lines like, Im City till I die, Im City till I die, or, Maybe in
another generation, when other lads have come to take our place, gave me pause. Even when
they finally won, in the most atypical fashion, there were the inevitable exclamations of, Now I
can die in peace. I wanted to at least live to see the double of 2013/2014.
I scheduled my surgery for the week after I was to compete in a sprint triathlon in
Rhinebeck because, Fuck you cancer! Training for the race provided a distraction and a
healthy dose of denial. How could I have cancer if I was in such good shape? Stronger by
Kanye West was on my playlist and it made me just that. In my head I substituted the word

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cancer for haters. Take that, cancer! Genius is genius. I finished third in the over fortyfive with a potentially terminal illness group.
My doctor advised that I needed to do some additional training in the form of
prophylactic Viagra. When I asked about the efficacy of taking an erectile dysfunction
medication prior to any dysfunction, I was sheepishly advised that there was no conclusive
evidence of any benefit, but there was consensus that it was a good idea. Taking a medication
you dont actually need will not necessarily enhance your performance. This is a message aimed
at all of the overachieving Adderall users out there. The stuff can make you psychotic. In my
case, I found that everything just got sped up, and it was too easy at that point to determine that
City had to take three points from all of their remaining fixtures to finish in a tie at the top of the
table and win the league on goal differential.
Since I chose the robotic option, Dr. Chairman would not be performing the operation.
He was old school and specialized in the open procedure. I was confident in his
recommendation; an expert with hundreds of robotic surgeries under his belt.
The most difficult part for me, being a bit of an obsessive, was totally surrendering
control. This feeling was most heightened in the moment before I went under. I was there, and in
a second I was gone. But I soothed myself with the notion that if I could survive the
anesthesiologists corny pre-surgery jokes, the actual surgery would be a piece of cake.
The operation went well. I woke up the next morning my primary objective in
tremendous pain. It felt like I had been hit in the gut with a baseball bat repeatedly, and I could
barely get from the bed to the chair two feet away. When they told me I would be walking laps
around the unit and then going home, I thought they were insane there was no way. For
somebody who was at a high level of fitness to not be able to walk five feet without wincing was

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humbling. I got through it and was able to get home, but there was still the business of the
catheter.
In the past I had joked that a catheter might be a convenience for me because I have to
pee so often a moment of conceit from which I would like to distance. There is nothing
convenient about having a rubber tube inserted in your penis the mechanics of which I do not
even try to comprehend and hauling around and then dispensing of your urine. After a week
the catheter was removed by female nurse who warned that there might be a burning sensation
when she pulled it out. I tuned out the part where she described how she would ready the tube
for removal, because as I said, I didnt want to know. The discomfort I felt was like no other.
Yes, it was short-lived, but acute and agonizing nonetheless. How could she describe the feeling
to me when she had no penis from which a catheter could be pulled?!
Before I left I was told that if I could get a steady stream going when I peed everything
would be okay. If not, the prospect of a catheter reinsertion loomed. I was sent home with a
package of pads to absorb the inevitable incontinence. When the steady stream appeared I was
relieved, especially since I thought being okay meant no incontinence. I was wrong. It was
not as if I would just pee in my pants uncontrollably, but for about three weeks, mostly in the
evenings, I would experience some leakage. The situation was made more awkward because I
returned to work after two weeks. Following the three week period, there were a couple of
circumstances where I had to be careful unexpected sexual arousal, which made intuitive sense,
and any deep yawn, which made no sense at all. I wish somebody would have told me some of
this stuff beforehand.
Training and rehabilitation are all too often associated, and in my case the training was
just the first phase. The nurses admonishment that if I didnt use it, Id lose it almost made me

15

forget the prickling discomfort from the catheter removal. My wife glared at me when I asked
the nurse if she could put that on a prescription pad. I imagined there would be a hefty copay
involved when I went to get it filled. The minimum post-surgery course of erectile dysfunction
medication is six months. I am proud to say that I only needed the minimum to reinvigorate the
nerves and get the blood flowing again.
They call that phase of the recovery, penile rehabilitation. The most difficult part of the
process was explaining it to my penis. We have always had a great relationship and he had
provided me everything Id asked for a beautiful wife and two sons. He had done nothing
wrong, yet I was asking him to start rehab. I felt like Robin Williams counseling Matt Damon in
Good Will Hunting, Its not your fault, its not your fault. My penis was resolute in his
opposition and kept telling me, No, no, no. Not telling, more like singing, in a perfectly
pitched, deep-throated, bluesy voice that would have made Adam Levine turn his chair around.
My penis is a soulful dude.
Although the prostate is not an essential gland, it is certainly not an appendage. The
prostate plays a vital role in the mechanism of ejaculation, which can no longer occur once it is
removed. That was an adjustment for me, but not a catastrophe. I could have frozen some
sperm, but we were done having children, and I was still able to get the feel-good pulsating
sensation of an orgasm minus the sticky mess. The best analogy I can come up with is when an
automatic soap dispenser runs out of soap. You put your hands underneath it and hear the
suction sound of the apparatus straining to push something out, but nothing emerges. The
experience is like going from a rifle to a saber, or in my case, a pistol to a dagger.
Given all my recent experiences, I was not one to skirt sound medical advice. In between
refills, I would occasionally need to use it on my own to retain fitness. On this particular

16

occasion I was working towards that Mellencamp moment. The feeling was so intense that it
must have created a vacuum, a veritable black hole, a vortex if you will, that sucked up
everything in its path. As I felt something starting to be expelled, I could only think one thing.
Im a medical miracle! My virility has defied the laws of anatomical science!
I didnt call in CSI, but was quite sure the substance that was ejected was not semen.
Thank goodness I didnt have a kidney stone, because it would have been unbearably
forced through my extensive urethra (the doctors characterization, not mine).
All of the post-surgery surveys ask a similar question that insinuates I might now feel less
masculine due to this limitation. I never consciously felt that way. There must have been some
sense of inadequacy, though, because shortly after my surgery I went out and bought my wife a
pearl necklace.
The surgery left me with a number of scars, most of which are too small to notice. There
is one prominent scar right above my belly button in the shape of a frowny face. As vain as I am,
I dont mind it that much. Its a great conversation starter. People ask me how I got the scar and
I usually reply, Knife fight with a robot. Sometimes, when Im feeling especially frisky, the
conversation goes like this:
How did you get that scar?
C-Section.
C-Section?
Of course, I cant give birth vaginally; I dont have a vagina, duh!
A year after the surgery I scheduled a follow up with the urologist who diagnosed me just
to tie up loose ends. I had received a non-existent PSA result from my primary care physician a

17

week before he has his nurse draw the blood and knew I was cancer free. I asked if he
needed to do a more accurate PSA test.
Definitely not, but let me do an examination just to be thorough.
Whatcha looking for doc, because we both know theres nothing up there anymore.
At this point I have adjusted, and relish the opportunity to use my misfortune to fuel pithy
exchanges with my wife.
Noah, I am going to boil an egg, do you want one?
OK.
You know what, I think there is only one egg.
Please dont offer me eggs that you cant produce. I dont offer you sperm that I cant
produce.

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