What to ask the oncologist

Here's what I've come up with. Anyone have other suggestions?

1. Everything I read says that the prostate is "about the size of a walnut". Does it also taste like a walnut?
2. One of the remedies is called a "radical prostatectomy". This sounds so 1987. Don't you offer an "eXXXtreme prostatectomy" yet?
3. Another remedy is call "cryosurgery". If you do this one, how far in advance do you need to defrost the cryosurgeon?
4. What are the three laws of robotic prostatectomies?
5. In "brachytherapy", radioactive seeds are implanted through the rectum wall. But how will these grow where the sun never shines?
6. How high does a Gleason score have to be before you get one POW! right in the kisser?

¡Mucho gusto!

I didn't have much time for lunch today, but I still wanted to take advantage of the cooler weather to go farther afield than just next door. Since I'm still lying low from the Koreans (how sad is that?) I've been hitting the wraps place more than usual. And since the student help still hasn't returned for the season, that means it's the Latinos that are running the place these days.

One has been working at the restaurant at least as long as I've been eating there--a barrel-chested, balding, moustachioed Mario with a bum leg. But he's generally cleaning up, so we've never had a chance to interact. The Chilango and I have exchanged a few words, but the one I've chatted with the most is the Peruano even though he's the newest, since it's usually him who serves me. It also helps that he has the most intelligible Spanish.

Today, as he was making my sandwich de pavo, he brought me to the attention of Mustache Daddy. Perhaps he's mentioned me before? There can't be many regular gringo customers who order with a Castilian accent. It turns out his name is Rodolfo and he's from Morelia. I learned that about him and much more because finding out I knew Spanish was like wrenching a tap open and getting it stuck in the wide-open position.

Unfortunately, following him was something of a chore because he took me too literally at my "poquito" and spoke in pidginised Spanglish. For instance, trying to dispel the unspoken assumption that all illegals were criminals, he told me "Mi no robar! Mi no matón!" and "la pipol" was as apt to appear in his speech as "la gente". This led to the absurd situation where I would get confused trying to follow him and the Peruano would help me out by translating what he said into fully grammatical Spanish! I kept throwing in some more advanced vocab like "exiliar", "inmigrantes", and "tuve" in the hopes he'd stop dumbing down, but he never did.

Nevertheless, I couldn't resist inviting him to sit with me and talk away while I ate. I figured he really needed to get his troubles off his chest--and I know I appreciated staring at that chest, the huge hairy arms that extended from it, and the sweet dimples on either side of his big black mustache. Si algunos sabrían lo que saben los otros...