I received a letter in the mail, not long ago, from a major University located in Wayne County, Michigan. I don’t want to name them, but I think they’re the biggest school in the county. They’re named after Major-General “Mad” Anthony Wayne. They asked me how my prostate was doing.


Dear Rodney, How’s your prostate health?” the letter began, in bold-faced type.

“Dear ________ State University, mind your own damn business,” I wanted to write back. Then I got scared. Wait, did somebody at some point give me a rectal exam that I wasn’t aware of? I know I’ve been poked and prodded a lot over these past few years, but generally speaking, a fellah doesn’t forget a friendly finger in the fudge factory.

I vividly remember each time that doctors have checked me, you know, there. The last time, a couple years ago, I broke out laughing. The lady doc said it was the funniest time she ever had giving the exam. I aim to please.

Reading the letter further, I realized it was actually a solicitation. They were also offering — I kid you not — a free gift if I made an appointment with one of their doctors. My imagination ran wild with ideas of what that free gift would be until I read further and found it was just a first aid kit. For a PlayStation, I might’ve made the appointment.

Look, I know this shouldn’t be a laughing matter. One out of six men will be diagnosed with prostate cancer at some point in their lives. Early detection is critical; I get that. But after all that I’ve been through with my own health, it just seems that maybe I got onto some errant mailing list somewhere. Some stray blood sample or routine urine test must’ve passed through a ________ State University lab and, voila, I’m on a list about people who might be susceptible to suggestion, subliminal or sub waistline.

When they wrote, “There’s no better team to have on your side than our urologists,” I had to laugh. If I’m starting up a team in my fantasy draft, you can bet urologists aren’t getting picked in the first round. The hard sell was on. Is money at the University so tight that a direct mailing to potential customers, err, patients might bring in more cash? I felt, in all honesty, that it wasn’t me they cared about, but my business (my man business?).

As long as we’re on the subject, that letter wasn’t the only crappy thing I read today. I am facebook friends with several of the nurses who’ve helped me through all of my crazy bodily breakdowns. One of them was writing about poop transplants. Yep, according to the Huffington Post, researchers at Henry Ford Hospital — also in Detroit — discovered that 46 out of 49 patients who suffered from a gastrointestinal disease that I had, twice, got better when healthy poop was transplanted into their colons. I thank all my lucky stars and dead ancestors that I got better without having to go through that treatment.

With all of this, you might think that Detroit doctors are wasting their time focusing energy where the sun doesn’t shine. Butt you have to hand it to them. Their research has left the competition looking in the rear window. These doctors aren’t bums; you can bet your bottom dollar. It’s alimentary, dear Watson.

If you have any better end sentences, share them in the COMMENTS sections down below. Grammar and spelling doesn’t matter; you don’t have to be anal about it.