Charles Jensen | Writer

I had to see my doctor today. I was looking forward to it because I honestly like him and have had good consultations with him in the past.

To give you some background on this, I’ve been having some strange pain and fever lately. The pain is not the worst I’ve ever had—that would be a tie between when I had tears in my trachea and when I thought my appendix was about to burst—but let’s just say it’s distracting and, at times, consuming. Needless to say, I was a little concerned, particularly after a little internet research led me to believe I might have developed shingles.

I get to the doctor and am disappointed to discover that instead of the doctor, I’m seeing the physician’s assistant. She asked me to describe what was wrong and barely waited for my answers before firing off the next question. She poked my abdomen, knocked on it, and said, “You’re too young to have what I think you have…”

She made some notes and said, “Well, I don’t think you have shingles, but I’m going to treat you for it because it won’t hurt if you don’t.” She wrote out some prescriptions for me. She said, “There’s no reason for me to think you would have it…”

I said, “Well, I had chicken pox three times.”

She looked me right in the eye, steely, and said, “No, you didn’t.” Not in shock, but in a tone that suggested there’s no way in hell I had chicken pox three times. When the clock struck minute nine on the appointment, she vanished from the room, leaving me to get out on my own. A nine-minute appointment and half a diagnosis is what I got. Now maybe you can understand why I’m not enamored of her. And maybe why men hate going to see the doctor!

So now I’m home, still achey, not interested in having ANYTHING touch any part of the right side of my abdomen.

But wait, Charlie. Could this day get any worse?

I’m glad you asked! Yes. Yes, it could.

Because when I got my quick lunch from Whataburger, which I love, I started munching on the fries in the car. And when I got near the bottom—having eaten almost the whole thing—I discovered:

A PUBIC HAIR!

Thick, black, and curly, you can faintly see it in this on-the-spot camera phone shot, near the high side of the carton’s bottom. And the photo doesn’t do it justice because this looked like Rapunzel’s pubic hair, like some small insects were going to use it to climb out of the french fry box to freedom.

Thanks for listening.