My Urologist, I think I'll keep him.

I love my Beverly Hills Urologist.

Every time I stop in for a visit he hands me sample packets of the Blue V – that’s what he calls Viagra. Or Levitra. Or Cialis.

Though highly unnecessary, they put the recreation in recreational drugs.

While I’m there, he often regales me with sordid stories of his A-list clients. “You should have seen the descending testicle on So-and-So.” Or, “You think your prostate is enlarged, you should have felt the cantaloupe inside What’s-his-Face.”

Of course he never names names.

But an entire wall of his office is adorned with signed and framed 8X10 celebrity glossies, the kind you’d see at Canter’s Deli. So as I’m hunched over waiting for the inevitable, I try to match the southern hemisphere to the northern hemisphere.

I’m sure the casual dispensation of prescription pharmaceuticals and the less-than-discreet storytelling don’t paint the picture of the perfect health-care physician. But I’m sticking with my guy.

Because while he may have the ethical maturity of a 14-year old boy, he stands 5 foot 2 and weighs 130 pounds, which means he's also been blessed with the hands of a 14-year old boy.