One of the many endless reasons why those dirty green wannabes from a grossly inferior state school will never compare to Mighty Michigan was uncovered when Jared from Subway’s favorite doctor, Pervy Pervstein, was sentenced to 175 years for molesting a practical village of future Olympic athletes. First of all, 175 years? Why not just give the fuckin guy life? Or the death penalty? And I mean you have to recognize him as a gold medalist of sorts himself in the field of child molestation. He molested like a hundred Olympians; that’s clearly not the work of a bronze medalist diddler. Let’s give credit where credit is due.
But regardless of Pervstein sweeping the Evil Man of the Year Awards, the one piece of credit I keep hearing for the sixty-something former victims that have testified in this ghoul’s trial is how they “survived” molestation. Survived? Listen, it’s not a shark attack, some dirty doc just got a little handsy.
But through all of the horror and tragedy of this appalling situation there may be one overlooked silver lining to the entire disgusting saga. They say this future shank pincushion was getting away with this filth for over thirty years, and the guy looks like forty. Maybe he’s accidentally stumbled on the Fountain of Youth: pedophilia.
Still, as anti-wrinkle cream companies scramble to unlock this fabulous new formula, the grotesqueness of the situation can’t help but remind me of my own perceived child sexual abuse at the hands of a physician. Literally.
I was probably like six years old when I went to the doctor for some obviously super necessary check-up. I guess they wanted to check for Alzheimer’s. But when I was alone in the room with Doctor Indian Asshole (this name has been changed), I was laying on the super comfortable and not creepy at all butcher paper-covered massage table when this nigga just pulled my pants down and grabbed my balls and told me to cough.
Now I didn’t know what the fuck to think. There wasn’t even any warning whatsoever, and it wasn’t like this is what I figured I was signing up for when I went to the doctor. But I coughed—whatever the fuck that told him—and he kept it moving. When I walked out of the office I felt mad strange. Like, what the fuck? This dude had a handful of my sack two seconds ago, and now I’m supposed to pretend like it’s all good?
Well that’s what I did. What else could I do? I don’t remember my coping mechanism at the time, probably being a stupid little kid helped, but then the next thing you know it’s time for another check-up. With guess muthafuckin who.
I can’t explain the feelings of fear, and shame, and also a little anger at him not at least taking me out to dinner, that I felt during that car ride to doctor diddler. It was overwhelming. Finally about five minutes from the doc’s office/love nest, and bursting from the seams with anxiety, I confessed mid-car ride to my mom that I thought I had been molested. Then I explained my terrible story in harrowing detail.
To which she laughed and said, “That’s just a hernia check.”
Oh. I never thought of that. Whoops.
Luckily I hadn’t really been molested at all. Just some normal doctor shit that I had not only never experienced, but had never even perceived of as a remote possibility. Well I’ll be damned. Today I feel like I almost got the best of both world’s. It’s always made me feel more sympathetic in cases involving such unspeakable awfulness as Pervstein’s that I strangely kinda know what it feels like for the victims of child molestation without actually being one myself.
Although perhaps my doctor’s gloveless, hairy, Indian hand didn’t help.