I don’t know what the hell I was expecting that would have made it exciting—oily bodybuilders playing trumpets, say, or maybe Ann Coulter struggling to pull herself out of Rush Limbaugh’s saggy rectum—but the whole procedure was about as remarkable as Dubya reciting the alphabet all the way to the LMNOPs.
I did get to wear a hospital gown, though. And that’s always fun.
The procedure happened in two parts: First the nurse identified the three moles the doctor wanted to hack out of me, she injected some numbing/anti-bleeding agent on each site and then let it all simmer for about 10 minutes. (And that numbing stuff WORKED! As I was simmering, I poked and scratched my numby areas over and over—you know: just to make sure—and I felt NOTHING. Kinda like when I see an attitude queen get makeup all over his Prada or a hateful, malignant pope disappear into a fog of dementia.)
When the doctor came in for the second part of the biopsy, she used a pencil-sized cookie-cutter thing to punch out the moles, she sewed everything up with a few quick stitches, slapped on a few bandages and called me
And now, all that’s left is the healing. (And the diagnosis, I guess. I suppose that part is kinda important too.)
The healing involves cleaning my wounds and changing my bandages twice a day for two weeks until the stitches come out. (Two of the bandages are on my back, so this project should be fun in a circus mime sort of way.) I’m also not supposed to work out during those two weeks so my manly, bulging muscles won’t rip open the stitches. (Seeing as how my muscles bulge in the same way the EPA actually Ps the E, though, I think I’ll just let the pain and potential-bleeding moistness dictate when I head back to the gym. Besides, if I don’t get to work out, I start feeling all fat and irritable. And don’t nobody want that.)
Of course, three moles have to weigh—and I’m guessing here—about 10 or 15 pounds each, right? So I suppose with all the weight I had removed today, I can totally let myself get all fat. And nobody will be the wiser.
Unless one of you, dear readers, is some kind of MOLE.