So there was this guy whose member (not to be confused with his "GUEST") started to turn purple. He went to the doctor and said, "Hey, Doc! What's up with this?" The doctor ambled into the examining room, did a complete examination, and shuddered, "Oh, my, my, my. I haven't seen this since Vietnam. You have" -- he seemed to struggle to get the words out, so great was his horror -- "CATSPAW CROTCHROT!"

"OK, whatever. So, what's the treatment?" the guy says. He was a man who prided himself on his ability to cut to the chase--which, under the circumstances soon to be narrated, might not have been the most appropriate metaphor.

"Well, it's generally fatal," said the trembling doctor, who was surreptitiously glancing around the office for some Lysol. "But there is one possible cure."

"OK, tell me."

"Amputation," said the doctor grimly.

"Oh, no way, Jose!" the man said, so upset that he lapsed into outdated slang.

"My name is Marvin," said the doctor. "See the receptionist on your way out. And try not to touch anything."

The poor gentleman dragged his purple pecker from doctor to doctor, desperate to find a countervailing opinion, but in each office he heard the same deadly refrain: "Catspaw Crotchrot...it'll kill you for sure...only cure is amputation."

Finally, a female urologist (with the unfortunate name of Dr. Ophelia Johnson) said the words he had been hoping to hear. "Well, I'm not saying this will help, but I once met this real old hillbilly doctor from Mississippi who said he'd treated dozens of cases of Catspaw Crotchrot back in the 50's, when it was running rampant in several counties in Ohio. He lives here in town now. Here, I think I have his name and number written down in the back of this book." She opened a volume labeled 50 Years of Reader's Digest's "Laughter, the Best Medicine" (Large-Print Edition), copied a name and phone number onto a pre-printed Viagra prescription, and handed it to the suddenly smiling patient.

Overjoyed, the man called the old-timer and quickly made an appointment for that afternoon. After several wrong turns, he found the tiny, cramped office. The old man had bushy white eyebrows, a bushy white beard, and a full head of sleek, black hair. A small statuette of an opossum sat playfully on his desk.

"So, what do you think, Doc?" the man asked, trembling with anxiety.

"Oh, it's Catspaw Crotchrot, all right," replied the old doctor.

"But do you have to cut it off?"

The doctor looked at him for a moment, his eyes widening in amazement, and then suddenly burst into peals of raucous laughter, which soon led to a prolonged coughing fit. When he finally caught his breath, he dabbed at his watery eyes, straightened his sleek, black hair, and looked at the man with a bemused grin.

"Cut it off? Cut it off??? Don't be ridiculous! Is that what all them fancy city doctors were telling you? Hell, man, ain't no need to cut it off. Why, in a few more days it'll fall off by itself."


Aloha,
Mark