Well - I am happy to report I can now chalk ‘Near Death Experience’ off my life’s To Do List.

Yup, got that one covered yesterday morning in the midst of my morning commute. Now, one writes ‘commute’ and instantly my readers flash to some Final Destination sequence of chains loosening on barreling logging trucks sending giant splinters of timber careening into massive car carriers hauling the featured performers in the Mad Max Touring Road Warrior Company whose massive spiked tires pirouette through the air, impaling a Scion or two before ultimately coming to rest smack dab on my noggin. Well, I’m sorry to burst the balloon of wish fulfillment fantasy. My dance with the devil came packed in a pill bottle.

Here’s where I owe you a little back story.

I ended up going to the doctors on Monday to have them chase down a nagging concern of mine. Now, I’ll need to dispense a little personal information, but hey, that’s what’s so great about the Internet - you can run on and on at the mouth about your own personal nitty gritty and thanks to the relative anonymity granted by these cyber confessionals - people are none the wiser to your secret identity. Of course, that only works if you’re posting from a site that doesn’t have your first name branded on every square inch (which I write as I take another sip of EdZone brand Appletini.) Damn’t.

Oh well, I divulged enough already, might as well continue down this path. We’re all friends and/or spammers here, right?

Here’s where I get a tad bit personal, but hey, this is the Internet. If your not spying a body part or reading some tale from the nether regions, you just aren’t getting your money’s worth. So, on Monday,  I ended up at the doctors to have them investigate the cause of my apparent need to (let’s see, how can I put this delicately?)… take a piss every ten minutes.

Ya’ see, prior to last Friday, I was like every other red-blooded American male. I woke up. Pointed my crank towards the loo. Emptied the remnants of the previous night’s keg stand. Imbibed my morning coffee. Waited a few hours before visiting the john once again to refresh my memory of that morning’s great cup o’ Joe (Coffee Pee joins that rare pantheon of curious food aroma pees which include Asparagus Pee - although that is definitely not as delightfully fragrant - and Heifenreffer 40-40 Pee, which is best celebrated by giving one squirt to the urinal and one squirt to the floor - ya’ know, for your homies).

After Friday, things changed slightly. My body felt exactly the same as it did the day prior, with one small exception. Come Saturday, I found that I literally felt like I had to take a ’squirt’ the very moment after I completely emptied. This went on all day and carried over into Sunday. And that was the only thing wrong with me. There were no weird pains. No fever. Nothing remarkable - just the urge to supply a lemonade stand all the live long day.

Of course, being a weekend, my doc was off the clock so I had only the Internet to diagnose my symptoms. I input my one lone symptom (‘heavy desire to pee’) and was promptly told that I have cancer. Again, this is the Internet. Every symptom leads to the Big C and a pile of curiously-themed spam. If anyone needs a free invite to join the GoldenShower.com Gold Club, I’m apparently the guy to see.

As for the cancer bit, I’m not kidding. Log into WebMD, Yahoo Health, or the CDSC’s Hot or Not Zone and try it out for yourself. Headache. Sneezy. Stuffy Head. Fever. All equal cancer. And monkeypox. Oh, and hay fever. It’s really a toss up. Once upon a time, I used to get worked up when the symptoms rang up to that dire warning but now I’m hip to the web’s tricks.

Knowing that I wouldn’t be able to see a doctor until Monday, I just dealt with it and waited out the weekend. So, I had to hit the can more frequently!!! Think of all the Reader’s Digest I could catch up on. My Word Power would be superhuman by Monday morn.

Monday arrived and I called the doctor as soon as I got to work. He listened to my symptoms, barked a gruff “I’m not gonna’ let this kid die” and then hobbled off in his best House imitation. These young doctors. They’re so impressionable.

The doctor did agree to see me - most likely because it was Monday and what better way to start the week then with a peek at some random patient’s member. We’ll skip through the exam - both for the benefit of your stomach and my bruised psyche. Long story short, the doc diagnosed me with a case of prostatitis. Essentially, as all guys get older, their prostate steadily increases in size. From time to time, it can get infected for whatever reason. I happened to draw the short straw meaning a 3-week cycle of antibiotics and the nagging feeling that with what happened in that examination room - in this great state of Massachusetts - I may now be married to my male physician.

All this is preamble to my near death experience. Tis’ true. I haven’t even gotten to the good stuff. One final footnote before we get there. When I got back to work, I decided to look up prostatitus on my office Internet connection. Of course, Yahoo returns “Did you mean prostitutes?” Yup, that’s exactly what I meant to shop for at work under my company’s puritanical Internet policy. And while your at it, how about providing me the directions to upSkirt.com and an Al Queda recruitment form.

So we flash to Tuesday morning. On the way to work, I hit the CVS to pick up my prescription. I noticed the tech took a few minutes longer than normal to return with the bag - no doubt she was front runner in the office pool to see how long it takes before I take the lead in the pee pee dance. Finally she returns with my meds and I hit the road.

Knowing that I had to whack this infection as soon as possible, I popped the top and began the 21-day circuit. I washed it down with some ice coffee and then pointed my car towards the open road.

About a 1/2 hour later, roughly 10 miles out from my office, I started coughing a bit. My eyes began to water next followed by an itching on several parts of my skin (face, arms, legs) due to hives that were appearing. Shortness of breath joined the fray and then things got real scary. My throat started feeling like it was closing up. This all transpired as I was rocketing at 70+ miles an hour down the Pike. I was between exits - with my office being the next exit - so I figured I should continue on to work (if I lived) and seek medical attention.

As I walked into my office, I slumped down in my chair. At this point my arms were as heavy as cement and my lips were beginning to swell. I also had hives dotting my face and neck and my breathing wasn’t getting much better. I immediately drank 60 ounces of water - feeling I could flush whatever toxins were attacking me.

Just as I picked up the phone to call my doctor, my boss called. I was to report to a nearby conference room A.S.A.P. for an impromptu meeting called to prepare an RFP (Request for Proposal) for a large potential client. Knowing that performance review season is right around the corner, I headed to the room. I figured, if I was gonna’ pass on - it would be comforting to die in a room surrounded by IT geeks. Maybe they’d give me one of those cool Matrixy Viking funerals that Neo got carted off by at the end of Revolutions.

Well, I’m pleased to report I did not pass on. Either that or I’m here to tell you that one of the benefits to the afterlife is free wi-fi.

It turns out that I had a severe allergic reaction to the antibiotics I was prescribed. They had given me a dose of Cipro (which shot to fame during the 2001 Anthrax scare) and that experience finally gave me something to jot down in the “Are you allergic to any medications?” space on that questionnaire you fill out at every physical.

Also, now that I know that Cipro will surely kill me, the next time I spy a sprinkling of white powder on the floor, I’ll be repeating the following mantra:

Please be a Hostess Powdered Don-ette. Please be a Hostess Powdered Don-ette.