March 28, 2010
All juice, no seed
Originally published October 26, 2002
You can read the story of a BIG OLE WUSS being plied with alcohol, then hogtied and hauled to get a vasectomy, then you can contrast HIS behavior with my stalwart display of dignity and courage when facing the same operation. I went voluntarily to have a vasectomy.
After my son was born, the then-darling wife and I thought about having another child but decided against it. We figured that we had hit the jackpot with Quinton and we should quit while we were ahead. She had been taking some kind of shot for a couple of months (depoprevara, or something like that. I called them "Parvo Shots") to prevent ovulation and she liked the fact that she stopped having periods, too. But she became convinced that she shots were causing her to gain weight. She wanted off them but was reluctant to start taking the pill again. So, being the Southern Gentleman that I am, I said, "Why don't I just go get clipped?"
I stopped by at work the next day and saw Deniese, the company's Nurse Practicioner, and told her that I wanted to get a vasectomy. She picked up the phone and made me an appointment with Dr. Shook, her choice of urologists and I man I was later to become far too well-acquainted with, but that's another blog altogether. I went by Shook's office after work that day and filled out all the necessary paperwork for my operation three weeks later.
I had to take one form home with me for the wife to sign. In the state of Georgia, spousal consent is required before a married man can have a vasectomy. I didn't think twice about it at the time, but I find the idea incredibly ironic now. I could not go out and get clipped without my wife's permission. But SHE could go out eighteen months later and de-nut me with a divorce lawyer and I didn't have a FUCKING VOICE AT ALL in that matter. Something is terribly wrong with that picture. Okay, that's another blog, too.
On the appointed day, the wife and I showed up at Dr. Shook's office. She was there to drive me home afterward. The doctor had offered anesthesia and I accepted eagerly. As a person who has HIS OWN GAS MASK at the dentist's office, I am a certified anesthesia-hound anytime ANY doctor wants to do something I find unpleasant, and since I find GOING TO THE DOCTOR unpleasant, I just say "yes!" if drugs are offered.
I was called and told to remove my clothes and don a hospital gown. I did. I was led to an examination room and told to lie on a table. I did. The nurse lifted my gown, examined my equipment and said, "You didn't shave."
I had to admit that, no, I didn't shave. Nowhere in all that literature I read about the operation did I see any instructions about doing that, so I didn't. "Well, we'll take care of that right now," she said in a businesslike tone while snapping on a pair of latex gloves.
"I want my shot!" I whined.
I didn't get my shot. I got wet and lathered and shaved by a professional who used a Bic disposable razor. In other circumstances, I might have found the experience to be erotic. Had the wife and I known ahead of time that this procedure was required, we could have played some fun games with it. But having that nurse do it shrunk me like a spider on a hot stove. I was embarrassed, not because of being shaved, but because of what happened to me. My manhood resembled a stack of dimes 30-cents tall. My proud portabella became a button mushroom. I expected to look like a man with two navels any minute now. I was humiliated, and worried that my wanger might NEVER recover.
When the nurse finished, the doctor arrived. I got my shot then, but it wasn't much of a shot. I would rather have had my gas mask from the dentist's office and a nice bottle of nitrous. I watched as the nurse laid out a series of torture devices on the Mayo table next to me, and couldn't help thinking of the movie Braveheart, where the torturers displayed all their knives, hooks and tongs right before they eviscerated Mel Gibson. The doctor picked up a hypodermic needle that resembled a bicycle pump and gave me two shots in a place where no man EVER wants to see a hypodermic needle pointed.
But it wasn't that bad. A slight sting.... then MY NUTSACK WENT NUMB!
That is one hell of an unusual sensation. I believe that most men LIKE feeling their balls, except for those occasions where the cods absorb a sharp blow and you crawl around on all fours (actually, you crawl on ALL THREES, if you're not curled in a fetal position, because one hand will be tenderly cupping your nuts) making pig noises for a while until the pain subsides. Having them just GO AWAY like that is very disconcerting.
The doctor picked up a scalpel and said, "Do you know any good jokes?" (I AM NOT MAKING THAT UP!)
I informed the good doctor that I knew a gazillion good jokes, but he wasn't going to hear one now, because the LAST THING I wanted him doing was laughing like a maniac while he sliced into my testicles. I really didn't think that was a good idea. I wanted him to concentrate carefully on the task at hand.
He did something with the scalpel, did something with with another tool (I felt a slight tug there), then he picked up what appeared to be a soldering iron. I saw a tendril of smoke rise from between my legs, and the aroma hit my nostrils: PIG ROAST! Bejus! I knew it for a fact then. All men ARE PIGS, because I smelled just like a Boston Butt on a spit when the doctor cauterized whatever he had cut down there.
The entire operation lasted about fifteen minutes. I was told to get dressed and apply an icepack to my balls as soon as I got home. They gave me one pain pill and one sleeping pill and told me not to lift anything heavy for the next few days. I went home, took the pain pill, applied an icepack to my wound, sprawled on the couch and watched Willie Nelson in Barbarossa on HBO. I lifted nothing heavier than a 12-ounce beer can the entire time. I took the sleeping pill that night, slept like a baby and awoke the next morning with no swelling, no pain and not even a bruise. Just two sets of two stitches on my scrotum to show for it all. There's nothing to this, I thought.
My wife went out to feed the goats and chickens that morning. She came back and said, "We've got a goat problem." I figured that one or two of the escape artists had gotten through the fence again and run down the road to seduce that slut-goat Elvira at Bob and Sue's house. "I can't go rope them this time," I said. "I'm wounded."
"I think Billy is dead," she said.
Billy was my Alpha goat. He was a big, nasty, ill-tempered, head-butting, beard-pissing, sodomizing stink-bomb, but I was fond of him. He would eat out of my hand and no one else's. I suppose he recognized a kindred spirit in me. I went outside to check and, sure enough, Billy was gone to that great grasspatch in the sky.
The weather sucked. A misting rain was falling, the glowering clouds were battleship gray and the temperature was about 45 degrees with a chill northeast wind. Billy was still limber, so I knew that he hadn't been dead long. "I need to bury him," I told the wife.
"Don't you do that, Rob. You know what the doctor said. Call Ed or Willy and see if they'll do it. They owe you a favor." I said I would, later.
I went back inside and sprawled on the couch. She took Quinton and went to the grocery store. I went back outside and buried Billy in the rain. That was MY job. The other three goats stood in a line and baaaa-ed like a Greek chorus while I dug the hole, dragged Billy into it and covered him up. I was so careful about not hurting my nuts while I did all that that I damned near threw my back out using poor shovel technique. But I suffered no lasting damage from it.
I was at Keller's Flea Market a few months after my operation, and I almost bought a neat belt buckle I saw. It said "VASECTOMY--- ALL JUICE AND NO SEED."
March 21, 2010
Originally published October 26, 2002
I found this HERE.
"We were waiting for this storm, we were sure it was necessary. The terrorists said to us, 'God is Allah, and we are eager to get into his kingdom. The Chechen women, who were among the terrorists, said they would be glad to gain freedom and were prepared to blow up themselves. When some noise was periodically heard outside the building, the female terrorists scattered around the hall among the sitting hostages. They laid hands on their belts and shouted that they would blow up the hall and themselves together with all those sitting," Chernyak said.
Would we have the testicular fortitude in America to handle such a situation, or would authorities blither and blather worrying about covering their asses until all the hostages were dead? What would our sterling news media make of this (in my opinion) outstanding hostage rescue operation?
The DC sniper case is a good illustration of what's wrong with the news media today. If I didn't know any better, I would believe that Chandra Levy and the sniper victims are the ONLY PEOPLE EVER MURDERED in the DC area. That's bullshit, but you wouldn't know it from watching CNN and the rest of the breathless reporters out there. I believe that somehow, probably with the advent of CNN, we've gone from REPORTING the news to MANUFACTURING the news. After all, when you report 24-7, around the clock, you've gotta have SOMETHING to say; otherwise, you have nothing but dead air. I believe that the czars who run the BIG MEDIA believe that nothing is news unless they declare it to be. They are wrong.
Major news organizations ignored this situation in Russia, while recycling sniper stories, and that's a crying shame. This same situation could be coming soon to a theater near you.
I would call that news.
March 14, 2010
Originally published October 26, 2002
Yeah, the SAME THING happened in Georgia when PAUL COVERDALE died unexpectedly. Maybe the Democrats can run Robert Torricelli in Minnesota as a last-minute replacement.
After all, it's all about power GOOD GOVERNMENT.
I didn't like Paul Wellstone's philosophy, but I liked the man. I believe that he was the genuine article, exactly what he claimed to be, unlike so many of the chamelion, finger-in-the-wind, weasel-assed snotwads in government today. I disagreed with almost everything Wellstone stood for, but I admired the man for having the balls to be himself, the doofus.
I can disagree with people and still respect them if they display character traits I admire, such as honesty, integrity, toughness and tenacity. I may think that they're full of shit, but I'll give 'em credit for being HONESTLY full of shit. Hell, I'M full of shit, when I ride my personal hobby-horse until the legs fall off.
But I will despise Bill Clinton and his ilk and minions all my life, because they manufacture whatever shit is necessary to fill themselves with, and they lie when the truth would have served them better. I really don't understand people like that. I also despise the people who eat that shit up like gravy on rice, too. They drink the purple Kool-Aid gladly, with eyes shut and every lesson Mom and Dad ever taught them shut down. Fuckwits. The same people wonder how Adolph Hitler came to power. Gawd! It only takes a dedicated cadre of True Believers, you gravy-suckers!
As for myself, I believe that I will go to Wisenbacker's bar and watch football today.
March 07, 2010
the fine art of cursing
Originally published May 31, 2004
The proper use of profanity has been cheapened and defiled by gangsta rappers, professional athletes and people who never were trained in the art of good cussing. I really hate to see poor, ignorant foul-mouths abusing our colorful language that way.
I was trained to curse by some true experts. I never heard my father use a foul word until I started playing golf with him. Then I learned that my dad could cuss a golf ball as well as anyone on the planet. He was imaginative and creative in his cussing, too. He didn't use the same lines over and over.
"Sit DOWN, you wicked bitch! Don't fuck me like that! Awww, you heartless whore. Go on into the water, you rotten piece of shit! You need a goddam bath anyway, cocksucker." My dad could have been an excellent Marine drill sergeant.
I pride myself on have a very educated foul mouth.
But I also agree with this guy that turning off the cuss-instinct is difficult to do sometimes. I try not to cuss around Quinton or Jack, because little pitchers have big ears. If you say "fuck!" one time around a young'un, you can bet your sweet ass that it's coming back at you very quickly. I don't want my son to cuss until he's old enough to know what he's cussing about.
I learned to cuss well from a lot of time playing guitar in bars and working 24 years in a chemical plant. Some people just can't understand the message you're attempting to send unless you reinforce it with some creative cursing.
Handle a heckler in a bar. If you can't out-cuss that troll-like bastard, you're fucked, right there on stage. You've gotta put a big chomp on his nasty ass right off the bat, humiliate him in front of his audience, or he'll heckle all night long. I could chainsaw those assholes.
Working in heavy industry, I found myself bossing a lot of rough cobs. If you tip-toe around such people, say please and thank you, they'll eat you alive. I am not a big man. In fact, I'm kinda short and a lot skinnier than I want to be. But I had a job to do, and I relied on sheer, unmitigated attitude, combined with creative cursing to keep those people in line.
If I ever cursed an employee in front of a witness, I was subject to a grievance from the union, so I usually did it with no one else around. But when the time was right, I let fly.
"Just what the fuck did you think you were doing? I ain't puttin' up with that kind of assholery on my watch. If you can't get your shit in one sock and do your job the right way, I'll have your nutsack flying from the front-office flagpole tomorrow. I'll cook you like a goddamn Christmas goose. And if you think I'm lying, you dipshit, just go back out there and fuck up again. I'll have your ass on a stick over the hottest fire YOU ever felt."
Mr. Rogers, I wasn't.
Cursing sometimes is a very effective way to get an important point across to someone who doesn't want to listen. I keep practicing every day.
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