La version française de ces histoires se trouve sur En direct de l'intestin grêle

Wouldn't it be great if these stories were true? Unfortunately (or fortunately) they're not; they are just the product of my overworked mind. All characters and events are fictitious and if you think you recognize yourself or somebody you know in these stories, it was not my purpose and it is purely unintentional. In the meantime, I hope you will enjoy reading this blog. Feel free to link this blog wherever else you hang out on the Internet and to post comments below. I enjoy hearing from you.


Wednesday, November 16, 2011


When I was young, prostates did not exist. Well at least, nobody talked about them.

In biology class, I learned that human beings were a bunch of entrails wrapped up in skin and supported by a bone structure set in motion by a muscular mass.

My teachers told me about the heart, the œsophagus, the stomach, the bowels (of course!) – the large and small intestine – the liver, the brain, the spleen and the pancreas, but never about the prostate.

On the other hand I was often told about a womb bearing some fruit that apparently was blessed.

Could it be that such blessed fruit was a prostate? No. It was impossible. But go figure: anything can happen when gods are involved.

The truth is the prostate is a gland that hides underneath the bladder, patiently keeping watch while producing a slightly caustic liquid through which valiant sperms will swim, while pursuing their reproductive duty. This fluid protects the sperm entering the acidic environment of the vagina.

A sperm is a tragic hero. In his quest for an egg that most of the time fails to show up, he has to fight and destroy his own weaker brothers.

Every instant of every day, entire battalions of these courageous soldiers are slaughtered while trying to accomplish their duty. If I am writing this story and if you are reading it, it is because one of these brave fratricidal and paradoxical champions, protected by a vaguely caustic liquid armour made by a prostate, successfully completed its mission.

I was in my teens the first time I heard about the prostate. My grandfather (the one with only three teeth) thought his prostate had gone awry when he relieved himself in the toilet after my grandmother used a blue disinfectant for the first time.

If water in your toilet turns this colour, don’t panic. Your prostate is still functional. The water is blue only because somebody cares about killing germs.
I realized then that a prostate can provoke a fearful laugh.

When a prostate ceases to work, manhood is at stakes. Man’s procreating role is compromised. Survival of the species is jeopardized. This is no ordinary fear. This is the ultimate terror: fear of extinction, of total collapse.

Laughing is a reflex that can defuse fear. With laughter we can boldly face threats of danger and doom.

In Movember gentlemen, grow a moustache... for fun. But remember it’s a symbolic gesture about the little mass of flesh in your groin that produces the ammonia without which we would not exist.
Movember is a portmanteau (for "Moustache" and "November"). In November men from everywhere in the world grow a moustache (sometimes to their girlfriend or wife great displeasure) to raise funds and public awareness towards male illnesses, for example prostate cancer.


  1. A beaut, Geffroy. A real beaut!

  2. I will convey the message...

    Thanks for reading "Straight from the Guts".