Mom, don't read this

Okay, if you're easily grossed out, stop reading.

Somehow the conversation between Craig and me comes to prostate health. Let's blame the television. I blame it for everything else.

And he asks how old he's supposed to be before he needs to get that checked out. I tell him. And then he asks if it's possible for the doctor (she's a woman) to maybe wear a cute outfit (boots? leather?) before she checks him out for such ailments.

And then he keeps it up. "Will she maybe wear a wig? Will she get into a character? Will she get a costume? Will she spank me first? Could she pull my hair a little?"

As I write this, he's still talking. "She can't just go at this willy-nilly; it's an event!"

Am I wrong to document his sickness to the internets? Because, in his words, "If it's wrong, I don't wanna be right."

I hope to God that my doctor doesn't read this blog.