Rosen Penis, MD

Lady Snakin and I are off to foggy ol' Londontown, which means that Mabel will be on hiatus for the remainder of the month. If anyone so desires to contact us, we will be staying at the stately Saucy Jack's House of Beds in the fasionable Slough section of the London suburbs. Just address your correspondence to "The Snakins, London, UK"--it'll find us. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy another tale from Dr. Dipsey of the Cantwell Controlbots. Gobble gobble.

Stop for a second and imagine to yourself the circumstances which would demand a sign stating, “Please do not board the elevator with the robot.” If you feel your pulse quicken and the hairs stand on the back of your neck, you are experiencing a wholly appropriate reaction.

That sign is above the elevator at one of the hospitals where I work. I take the stairs without fail. I have never seen the robot, and I hope that I never will.… However, should I ever see the dastardly menace, I can assure you that it would not take a sign to convince me that I should not trap myself inside a suspended steel box with a purebred instrument of destruction.

Thinking for another moment, one realizes that something must have transpired to mandate the warning. What poor soul climbed aboard the elevator with the robot, hoping merely to ascend to the fourth floor, only to be torn to shreds in a blurred tempest of metal claws and actuators?
And finally, one has to ask – why would a bloodthirsty robot, hell-bent on rending human flesh, be allowed to enter an institution of healing – let alone ride its elevators? Well, one, I have some bad news for you: your doctor is being replaced by a robot.

I spoke recently with a family friend – a urologist. A cock doctor, as they are called professionally. He was describing to me with glee the fact that his hospital had recently made purchase of a surgical robot, one which he had learned to use in the process of a TURP. TURP, my non-robot friends, stands for transurethral prostatectomy. It is a process rather akin to coring an apple, only the apple is your prostate and the apple corer is inserted through your cockhole. And in this case, a robot was manipulating the apple corer – the surgeon sitting across the room, holding what I can only imagine to be an NES controller.

How long, I wonder, until surgery suites have a sign above their swinging doors: Please Do Not Give Your Penis To The Robot.