I just got the call from Joe Rogan who tells me it's now a done deal. We are the new hosts of The Man Show on Comedy Central. More when I get the details.
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A scrotum is supposed to have wrinkles, right?
Mine does not anymore and I'm starting to worry. 12 days after the vasectomy my balls continue to grow like nuclear tomatoes.
Hard lumps have developed, one flucuates between the size of a large seeded red grape and a small egg and the other bigger than a peice of Double Bubble bubble gum.
My hypochondria wanes with drink and vicodin and then races back with a fury when getting a morning eye-load of the monstrosity that is my sack, ballooning like the fat kid from Willy Wonka.
They say to wait 72 hours and I'd love to meet the superhero who would want to jack off three days after this shit. It took me a week before I allowed myself to blow a load and then did so squinting like a girl at a scary movie, expecting blood and stitches to fly out of me.
Sure, I should go back to the doctor. But I'm on the road and I don't like doctors. Doctors started this shit. Probably sewed up a half dollar in there as a goof. I prefer to exhaust all the home remedies before I zip down to the man with the scalpel. Heating pads, ice packs, hot bath, chicken soup, tylenol, Jagermeister, hystrionic weeping, prayer, Celebrex, sensory deprivation, leeches, acupuncture, laying on of hands and/or feet, vicodin, voodoo, flotation tanks as well as fresh air and Gold Bond Medicated Powder. If none of these work, or if the seams of my sack start to tear from the pressure, then I'll see about going back to the good doctor.
In the meantime, I will continue to pull out my balls at the bar with timid cupped hands to horrify my friends and family.
The Hinden-Bag.
Whatever doesn't kill me makes me bitter.