After at least a century of modern medicine, you'd think that the medical community would have invented a softer, squishier, more vagina-friendly device to use for examinations. Why, I ask all of womankind, why have we not staged a march on gynecological conventions about this? If Tampax is now making tampons smooth as fresh-churned butter, and if I can buy "personal massagers" ERGONOMICALLY SHAPED to fit my voluptuous curves (laugh and I'll hit you), why, oh god, WHY can they not come up with something with a little less resemblance to some kind of ancient medieval torture device crossed with a fucking snowplow? Hell, have another guy (a cute one, preferably) stand there and hold the gates to all mystery open. He could talk to me, in very quiet and soothing tones, maybe with an exotic accent (Irish comes to mind...or Spanish), about how my glowing orifice is the womb of mankind, how precious and beautiful and wonderful my bouncing, squishy little ovaries are, how perfect in their elliptical shape, how wispy and mysterious my ovarian tubes are, how they wind and flow through my ethereal abdomen. Read some Pablo Neruda, god dammit.
But, no. Instead, I'm gonna have some schmuck with a really horrible accent impale me with a duck-lipped wrench, shove his latex-covered hand halfway to my lungs, squeeze my tender little ovaries like so many fragile grapes, scrape out my insides with a dry, wooly wand, then tell me to go home. Oh, and meanwhile, there'll be some Nurse Ratchet on standby, making sure this complete and total stranger with his arm up my crotch isn't getting any personal enjoyment out of the process.
Bottom Line: If I'm gonna be fist-fucked by a creepy little man with Robin Williams monkey arms, the least they can do is play some Tori Amos in the background. End of story.