The Boob-Crushing Hun

From misfiled under pingpong racket, rather than mammogram.
From, misfiled under ‘pingpong racket,’ rather than mammogram.

Most times, I find mammograms uncomfortable but otherwise forgettable; today was an exception.

Today, both of my important parts were tender, and in retrospect, this seems like an excellent cue to call and reschedule…no matter how many times I might have done so previously.

After flashing the waiting room–

No, no. Flashing is not the right verb. Flashing suggests a fleeting instance, rather than sitting around for a good ten minutes before noticing a disconcerting breeze.

Stupid gowns.

After entertaining the waiting room, a short, thick woman barked my name with a distinctly Germanic accent. I could tell she meant business.

“First time?”


I scurried behind her into a glorified closet, and once again stood in awe of the fridge-sized vise. For the uninitiated, this contraption does not gently mold your melons into soft patty shapes; rather, it unceremoniously clamps them into horizontal ping pong paddles. If I could see what was going on, perhaps I would be impressed: “Say, I could use those as serving platters, or a shelf for my bags when using the restroom.”

Despite the fact that the technicians are always female, mammograms also involve a lot of man-handling. Consequently, I didn’t fully realize the impending danger when she yanked my right boob into the machine and began pressing the foot lever to crank it shut. In fact, I didn’t really start worrying until I heard myself scream.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” she said, crisply.

Her delivery was not at all convincing, especially since she continued to stomp enthusiastically on the lever well past the point when I stopped breathing and the room started to go black.

Repeat that three more times. She said a few other things to me in the process, but every time she opened her mouth it sounded like: “Vee haff vays uff mekking you tok.” Believe me, if I had any big secrets, this would be a quick way to pry them out of me. I’d spill yours, too, come to think of it.

I suppose I’ll be back again next year, but if the boob crusher calls my name, I’ll feign illness and reschedule.


I wonder, now, what propels a person into this sadistic line of work, anyway?

Published by

Beret Olsen

Writer, photographer, teacher, and part-time insomniac.

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