When I was a kid, I was prone to strep throat infections, and the standard test involved a taking a deep throat swab with a long wooden q-tip. Since my throat was already on fire from the infection, this was extremely painful, and frequently caused me to gag, as well as to well up with tears from the swab. Inevitably, the doctor would poke the swab into a sterile test tube to send to the lab for analysis, and then turn to my mom or dad and ask: "Do you want to wait for the results to come back, or would it be all right to start him on some antibiotics today?" They usually agreed to start the antibiotics right away, which was bad news for me.
"Well pardner," the pediatrician would drawl in my direction, "it looks like you're gonna need a little poke in the fanny today to make you feel better." I would try to protest, and argue with my parents to wait for later (perhaps imagining that I might run away to Canada and escape my fate).
In the meanwhile, the doctor left the room, to prepare the shot, and before I could make a dash for the border he was back with the freshly filled instrument of torture, and I was flipped over on my belly, pants and shorts down around my knees, anticipating the sting of the needle, the burn of the medicine, and the long ride home -- sore at both ends!