Picking on Prostates

My computer must be an advertisement magnet because I am getting more and more ads and they are getting weird. I don’t mind the ads about going to Hawaii for Christmas or buying cheap gas, but this morning, my inbox side panel said, “Is your prostate the size of a pomegranate?” For starters, it’s none of their business and for enders I don’t have a prostate. I shook my head, growled, and hit the delete button. All is well, or so I thought.

I checked out Facebook and a couple other websites I’m following and suddenly it was coffee time, so I put my computer to sleep for a while, and when I returned, I had three messages. Cool, someone wants to talk to me. The messages were from Hard Rock, (not the café), Tricky ED (not Mr. Ed, the horse, of course), and More Man, (definitely not the religion). (I’m paraphrasing some of these names, but I’m sure you get the idea). My delete button went click, click, click.

I’m not the world’s expert on the prostate gland, but if I’m called to do so, I could carry on a decent conversation, but I won’t do that here. Tom had one, and then he didn’t. When he had it, it worked fine, as far as I could tell. He didn’t talk about it much like, “My prostate is on a roll” or anything like that. When it went away, no prostate donor came forward and I don’t recall the doc ever mentioning it again. I find it interesting that removing a prostate qualifies as a VA disability, “Inability to procreate.” Few men that I have met get excited about a new baby at age seventy, anyway.

I enjoy watching movies and although men frequently reference the upper half of the female body, they seldom bring up their prostates, “Let me check my prostate out.” They seem much more interested in what women have than what they have.

My ninth-grade health class in the 1960s was of little help in learning about prostates. We were all girls and none of us really cared about prostates or much else at age fourteen, and early on, I discovered I could easily divert my health teacher from her health topic of the day to almost anything, like the lack of girls’ sports at our school or whether or not JFK would be a good president or what about LBJ? My teacher Miss McGoo (name changed to protect me) skipped the entire chapter on prostates and spent about fifteen minutes on the female reproductive system. She turned beet red when she got to anything below the waist and quickly moved to the next chapter. I received an A in that class, but not because I learned anything, rather Miss McGoo was terrified of my mother, the Field Marshall.

I continue to wonder why I receive so many ads about the prostate and other sexual themes. Surely, the senders know I delete them, but they keep on coming. If we can send a person to the moon (and maybe Mars), can’t they figure out that I don’t have a prostate?

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