LAS VEGAS – When searching for a new primary care physician, I know it’s important to take a good look at my perspective doc’s licenses, because this is usually the quickest indicator of the physician’s background, education, experience and areas of expertise.

So, when I saw Dr. Rick Van Thiel had on his impressive and wide-ranging resume prior experience as a “sex machine inventor, swinger, BDSM master, porn actor and producer,” I figured I’d found my man.

Among other things, who better to remove the foreign objects lodged in my rectum as a result of my recent mechanical bull riding accident than a man who has extensive experience inserting and withdrawing things from all manner of orifices?

So you can imagine the shock — no, the absolute horror — I felt when I read of Dr. Rick’s arrest on charges of acting as a medical practitioner without a license, illegally possessing a gun, possessing drugs and issuing drugs without a prescription.

While I’m not one to hold drug possession against people (unless the drugs of which they are in possession are rightfully mine, of course), the thought of someone without a medical license putting their hand up my ass without paying for the privilege to do so really pisses me off — not to mention the thought of them accidentally shooting my balls off with an illegally possessed firearm while they’re at it.

The bottom line here is when I slap down my co-pay for a prostate exam, it represents the one and only situation in which it’s OK for me to be the person paying for things to be put up my butt.

From sketchy urban Johns in Manhattan to researchers at the Centers for Disease Control, everybody else has to “pay to play” when it comes to exploring the pungent miniature amusement park contained between my cheeks.

Let’s face it, once you’ve been wrist-deep in a man’s nether regions under false pretenses, it’s a little late to say “I’m sorry.” So, I don’t want to hear about Dr. Rick’s remorse or guilt, if indeed he feels any.

I just want a full refund and a follow-up exam from an actual doctor. A pharmacy that will honor the scripts for meperidine and tramadol Dr. Rick wrote for me would be nice, too, of course.

To be fair to Dr. Rick, my experience with him wasn’t all bad.

I definitely approve of his alternative definition of the term “head nurse,” for example, and the butt plug he developed that slowly emits liquefied narcotics for safe, track-mark-free and highly efficient anal absorption is sheer genius.

But doctors are required to obtain licenses for a reason — and just because I don’t have the foggiest idea what that reason is doesn’t mean it’s not a valid one. Maybe it’s to assure they have taken the Hipstamatic Oath, or maybe it’s just to make them pay a little something to hang their shingle. In any event, I’m pretty sure it’s not for the purpose of measuring their hands to make sure they fit comfortably inside patients’ rear ends.

Besides, I can get most of the same drugs I used to get from Dr. Rick from my weed connection, although I’m pretty sure he won’t fist my ass under any circumstances, even if it’s an emergency.

On the other hand, my weed guy never leaves me sitting around in a smelly, overly-bright lobby reading Sports Illustrated for 40 minutes before calling me back into the examination room, only to spend another 20 minutes with no reading material at all before finally coming in to sell me a quarter bag.

Despite betraying my trust, I hope they don’t throw the book at Dr. Rick too hard, because in his heart of hearts, I’m sure he was sincere in wanting to help people — or at least sincere in wanting to make money pretending to want to help people, which if you think about it, isn’t that far from what real, licensed physicians do for a living.

Regardless of how things eventually play out for Dr. Rick, my medical problems and I find ourselves right back where we started a few months ago — albeit minus one misplaced lightbulb and a couple of truly unfortunate small rodents.