"I've been told I have a marvelously symmetrical sphincter," Mr. Marshall told his doctor as he crouched on all fours on the table. His rotund hind quarters were plucked clean from hair, immaculately well-groomed for a man of his age.
Dr. Day adjusted his mask and set his tools down on the tray.
"Mr. Marshall," he began, in that grave tone doctors take on when something's terribly wrong.
"Don't hold back on my account," Mr. Marshall said, wiggling his hips. "I've heard it all, hemroids to colon cancer. When one gets to be my age, illnesses are like stamps, we collect them all!"
Dr. Day did not laugh at this. He did not smile either. He probably frowned, but it was hard to tell what was going on behind the thin, blue surgical mask.
"Mr. Marshal," he said again, "this is a dentist's office."















