My last colonoscopy was almost exactly the same. My doctor, whose name I will leave out, though he was known to some as "Wild Bill," to his staff as "Guido," to others as "Surfer Bill," to most of his female patients as "Fabio," (and I'm tempted to say some called him Tim) asked me if the room temperature was comfortable. It was around 40 F. Perfect for wearing a hospital gown. Sure, Bill, with your long sleeve shirt, long pants and yellow plastic surgical apron, it's great. He asked if I had any requests.
"No country music during the procedure and I'd like a carton of frozen yogurt waiting for me with a spoon when I come to." He grinned evilly, reached over and pushed play on the CD player. Nothing. He turned up the volume and delivered a nearly fatal dose of Tim McCrawdad or some such City-Boy-with-Hat-Boots-Pickup-Truck-and-Fancy-Guitar-Who-Doesn't-Know-When-to-Keep-Quiet-(Always). He pretended he didn't see my mouth moving for a minute, then turned down the volume.
"That's it!" I shouted. "Today's your turn. Gimme that yellow apron and lie down!" Unfortunately, the anesthesiologist had pushed the magic button when I wasn't looking. Just before I conked out, Dr. Bill gave me another evil grin and some comment about how I'd never really know what happened next.
One day, I'll find his secret headquarters. And when I do...