Monthly Archives: October 2008


Went in for surgery on Friday morning.

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I have a fear of needles. It’s overpowering….overwhelming….it’s debilitating. I can’t think. I start to twitch, sweat, breathe heavy. Just the thought of them – the sight of them – sends me into this bizarre panic. So, knowing that I was getting an IV before surgery wasn’t exactly the cat’s meow for me.

I requested that I have a preliminary shot that numbed the area on my arm before they gave me the big poke.

They said they could do that.

I asked if they could poke me with a slightly smaller needle BEFORE the numbing needle or give me a nice Kool-Aid juice drink that made me feel no pain instead of using the needle altogether – maybe we could just skip the needle…even if I had to drink a gallon of the Kool-Aid stuff, that would be alright with me.

I’d do it.

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Apparently with today’s technology the numbing juice drink is not yet a possibility.

Too bad.

They brought in a therapy dog for me to pet and three nurses to chat with me / distract me as though I were a six year old man-baby on the verge of a nervous breakdown while that heartless monster jabbed me with the mega-needle.

They got me all hooked up and, truth be told, it wasn’t that bad – it never is. But the fear is still there. I don’t know what it is.

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A nurse came in a bit later and gave me, what she called, a “cocktail”. She said it would take the edge off and make me a little sleepy.

She was right.

I took a nap.

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When I woke up they asked me to pee into a jar while lying in my bed, which is disgusting. It’s really difficult to force yourself to pee into one of those things. It’s like when you’re in the shower with your wife and you think it would be really funny to pee on her, but you know you only have a few seconds while her back is turned and so the pressure is on and you kind of lock up.

Anyway, it was sort of like that.

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After the “bed wetting” incident (no actual bed wetting was involved) they took me away.

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In the O.R. (that’s operating room for those of you that are stupid) the anesthesiologist said she was going to inject me with some sauce. I said, “is this the stuff that puts me down?”

The surgical nurse said, “Yep”.

There was an explosion in my chest – a taste explosion. It rose up into my mouth – copper. Gross.

I said, “See you on the other side”

And then I woke up in the recovery room.

Nauseous. Oxygen mask on my face. Sore. That sick copper taste still in my mouth. A nurse came over and asked how I felt. I told her it tasted like I was burping up pennies. She laughed and asked if she could touch my beard.

It’s the least I could do after she had been so kind as to tear out my testicle for me.

She poked my beard and told me she thought I might be Amish. I said I wasn’t.

i told her my throat was sore. She said it’s because they stuck a tube down my gob. I asked her if they banged it down with a hammer. She didn’t think so.

They took me downstairs and I chilled out in this reclining chair with wheels that I desired to take home. If it would have had a cup holder and a built in crapper worked into the seat, we would have been in business. I wouldn’t have left until they told me where I could purchase one.

This new nurse, she gave me crackers and some apple juice to drink. I told her I felt sick. She brought me a kidney shaped bed pan. I found this strange.

I puked in it.

My wife came in and she brought me flowers….paper flowers and a cactus with some new Gameboy games for me.

At my heart I am a stupid little vomiting boy.

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I stopped drinking the apple juice and started in on the water. I was going to be sick again.

I grabbed the gross bedpan, held it up under my chin and spit some weird salty cracker bile into it. The nurse and my wife were staring at me. The nurse behind the counter was staring at me. I asked them all why they were staring at me. They all turned away. It’s really awkward to just start barfing into a cup with strangers staring at you, waiting, watching, anticipating the vomit.

You could sort of tell they were all really excited to see me erupt. You could read it in their eyes, “Oh yes, here he goes – his breathing is getting heavier – this is going to be amazing. I hope some of it gets stuck in his beard – pleasepleaseplease…..”

I went into the bathroom and peed. The nurse said it might sting.

It didn’t.

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This, however, was the first time I realized I was wearing some kind of…….I don’t really know what to call it – nutsack diaper.

See Exhibit A where I demonstrate the proper usage:

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I hobbled out of the bathroom and asked the nurse if I got to take it home. She said that it was a scrotal support and that yes, I got to keep it.

I can’t quite tell you how joyous this made me feel. I told her I was so happy. I’d been meaning to pick up a scrotal support for the last few months – had even been looking at a few different styles on the internet – just hadn’t gotten around to it yet.

They pulled out my IV and sent me packing. That was it.

I know what you’re thinking. I know the question that rests on your brains that you’re afraid to ask. Maybe tonight you’ll do a google image search to find your answer.

What…..does it……LOOK like?

I’m not gonna tell you. I do have a LITTLE class, y’know.

That said, I DO believe that a picture is worth a thousand words, so please view this image of a chewed up piece of bubble gum:

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Oh wait……actually there was one more thing.

Before I went in for The Big Sleep we asked if we could get some photos of the troublemaker.

This little bastard had caused me some serious problems over the last month and I wanted to see it.

The nurses were kind enough to take photos for us and I’ve included them below. IF YOU HAVE NO DESIRE TO SEE THESE PHOTOS, SCROLL NO FURTHER!!! THEY ARE IN NO WAY X-RATED, BUT THERE IS A LITTLE BLOOD.

You have been warned. I will NOT be purchasing ANYBODY a brand new keyboard because you went ahead all willy-nilly and lost your lunch on those pearly whites.

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Thanks to everyone for the thoughts, prayers and blood sacrifices you made on my behalf. I really believe they helped. I am normally a very nervous nelly when it comes to surgery but I managed to keep it together through and through. The IV situation was probably the worst, but even that I was anticipating being so much more horrendous.


Next week we have an appointment with our doctor (who I just found out does vaginal reconstruction, so I’m going to talk to him about that – I have about a million questions) and we’ll be finding out if I’m going to need to do any rounds of chemo or radiation (please redirect all of your thoughts / prayers / animal sacrifices towards radiation / superpowers now).

The doctor ALSO let us know that the tumor had grown but had not SPREAD. So that’s good.

That’s my story.

Abe Lincoln out.


Since we’ve found out that my man purse is about to be unzipped and all contents emptied out (ie, my one remaining testicle removed due to the unwanted cancerous growth dwelling on it like the weird blond german junkie that’s been living on the couch in front of my neighbor’s house for the last week) the missus and I have been working tirelessly on sperm freezing for the last few weeks. The only downside is that now I don’t have any room for my ice trays or TV dinners and my refrigerator is sort of starting to smell funny.


We show up to the cryo-bank to make a “deposit” and we’re (I’m) so hoping to see THIS:

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or THIS:

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INSTEAD, what we get……is THIS:

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and THIS:
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They ask us some questions, get the initial paperwork done. Bill Cosby says, “Is the address on your license your CURRENT address?”

And I say, “No – I didn’t drive THAT far!”

She looks at me sideways and i say, “………..It’s a South Dakota license.”

She looks back at it and laughs WAY HARDER than is deemed even remotely necessary. She then repeats her folly to her coworker in a fit of giggles.

I know I described the person as “Bill Cosby” and then as “she” – but trust me when I say both descriptors are correct.

Bill opens the door and brings us to “The Back”. She hands me a small cup – sort of the ATM deposit envelope, if you will – and then says, “Choose any door on your right”. They all look the same except for room four. Room four has wallpaper……and printed on the wallpaper is naked women and close up shots of butts and boobs.

I choose the room I’m standing in front of.

Bill Cosby hands me a disc. I look at it – an adult DVD called “Bangin’ at the Cabo Cabana”. I say “thank you”. I pause for effect. I say, “This should be romantic”.

She doesn’t laugh.

How do you picture these rooms where you excavate for “the good stuff”. Mood lighting? Dark walls?……maybe a hue reminiscent of maroon? Candles – black AND white? Votives? Incense?

Maybe……..a recliner? Would you sit on the recliner if there was one there?

Did you picture this?

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How about a light dimmer, at the very least? I get “Bangin’ at the Cabo Cabana” and a stack of porno – seen above in Exhibit “Thumbs Up”. I mean, it’s SOMETHING, but a little ambiance goes a long way.

We pop in “Bangin” – more to just check out as a novelty with no real plans of watching it (PLEASE DON’T THINK WE’RE PERVERTS!!!!!)

The DVD starts on the little flat screen television. There are headphones but I just turn the volume down….to zero. I don’t like being confined by a cable and I don’t want Cosby walkin’ by thinking I’m a pervert.


Baby blocks DROP from the sky and twist around until the words “BABY DOLL PICTURES” is spelled out in front of us. No joke.

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From the baby-like logo it pretty much wastes no time getting down to biznus. “Bangin’ at the Cabo Cabana” has CERTAINLY earned it’s title from frame 1.

We kill the movie because it’s sort of breaking the “mood” – the mood that is like being locked in the closet of a dentist’s office without pants on. PLUS, I’m really concerned that if we watch it all the way to the end, the guy, rather than choosing to go with the “traditional” adult ending, will just decide to neatly collect his “product” in a little plastic vial and then set it on a nearby counter and I think if i actually witnessed that, it would be game over for me.

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The place is small enough that you can hear Bill Cosby and Mimi from The Drew Carey Show talking down the hallway. Mimi has a bad cough, full of phlegm. Bill Cosby does most of the talking and laughing. People walk by our door with heavy, echoey footsteps. For a moment two people actually stop to chat about plans after work outside my door… room. I feel really out of place, a little awkward, afraid to be caught, even though I’M paying THEM to be HERE doing THIS.

It’s a strange paradigm.

I’m not really going to get into the logistics of the deposit itself for obvious reasons, but I will say this…….the “deposit envelope”……..the little jar…….after four visits I’m STILL not sure of the best way to get the “money” from my “wallet” into the “envelope”.

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Once you’re…….done…… have to walk through this place, carrying your “envelope” with you, proclaiming to anyone that sees you, “How are you? Why yes, I AM carrying around a jar of SPERM – FRESH FROM THE TUBE! I’d love to stay and chat but I really must be getting off to work.”

You drop the goods off behind some sliding glass and ring a bell. DING – EVERYONE THIS YOUNG MAN HAS COMPLETED HIS JACK OFF! CONGRATULATIONS, SIR!

I turn to leave and ALMOST make it back to the exit when a small Asian woman in a radioactive suit pops her head out from the sliding glass door and says in a Darth Vadery voice, “Excuse me…..sir……(all these dots are where Darth is doing his heavy breathing)…..i need to ask you……..a few questions……”

I come back over to Darth Quan and, with my canned specimen resting next to her writing hand, she says, “How long……have you been…….absent…..?”

Certainly she MUST mean ‘abSTInent’? CERTAINLY the LAB TECH JEDI at the CRYO-BANK knows the difference.

She says, “Did you get it all……….in the cup………?

I want to tell her that most of it went on the floor because of their stupid little cup technology (even though it didn’t). I want to tell her it’s on the TV and all over the magazines and on the headphones. I feel like I should say SOMETHING, but nothing comes to me.

I nod and say, “yes, ma’am. It was a clean escape.”

At the front desk they charge me a hundred bucks, which I don’t really understand since mostly I did all the work. The lady hands me the credit card paper and a pen and says she needs my signature.

I say, “Ah yes, the ol’ John HandCOCK, huh?”

Bill Cosby certainly thought THAT one was funny – and I don’t blame him / her.