My Balls

You never realize how many body parts attach to your balls until you have them surgically mutilated. I changed my mind 100 times in the hour before I left, even stopping the car on the way when reading parts of the pamphlet I’d been given. “Infrequently, a patient may experience pain around the testicles up to 20 years after the vasectomy.” 20 years??? What exactly does “infrequently” mean? As a gambling man, I’d like some more specific odds making. “Very rarely, a small blood vessel may enter the scrotum and form a clot. A small clot will probably dissolve over time but a large one can be painful and usually requires reopening of the scrotum for drainage. This procedure requires hospitalization and a general anesthetic”. Still I managed to make myself show up. The vasectomy itself, as they told me, wasn’t “painful” - in the sense that it didn’t hurt hurt. But it was certainly one of the most all-around uncomfortable experiences of my life, just in knowing what is happening and the anticipation of what it could and should feel like. I could not feel much of anything save for the needle that delivered the local anesthetic and then just barely. Had I felt anything like it just walking down the street it would barely warrant a quick scratch but I wasn't on the street. I was splayed out in a doctors office with my prepped and disinfected lunch being cut open, pulled apart rewired and stitched up and I knew it.

So I laid back, ate Fritos, made some calls on my cell phone and made as many jokes as I could, all of which fell on deaf ears. I guess he’d heard em all. After the shot, I don’t have the slightest idea what happened down there. I’d just look at Renee’s expressions of barf-bag horror and assume the worst. Ask any Wallenda and they’ll tell you - Just don’t look down. I told him he could take some extra scrot-skin to make eyelids for burn victims. Nothing. Honey took some pics but the doc wasn’t brimming in his humor and we certainly didn’t want him to be shaky-handed. Product Placement

I was about to call Rogan and have him talk me through it “Fear Factor” style but by the time I thought of it, it was done. I was bid farewell and ran into the world like a hero. No bed rest for me. I felt just fine. Let’s go run some errands. Shortly after leaving the Spy Store where I picked up gear for an upcoming project, I realized the reason I had felt so good. Anesthetic, stupid. Anesthetic wears off, stupid. By the time I got home I was walking like I just rode a spastic, bony horse bareback in an all-day rodeo. And it just got worse as the day went. Like blue-balls with stitches and I hadn’t even thought to ask for pain-killers. Scrot-skin eyelids

I took my last Xanax and drank a six pack. Sleep is the best pain-killer there is but I couldn't sleep. I couldn't do anything because, as I said, your balls are connected to everything. They are connected to your stomach muscles and your leg muscles and your lungs. You can't laugh or cough or yell and I prayed to Gods that I don't believe in against getting a boner. Don’t sit up or sit down or push a piss. Just let it dribble Today, the day after, I walk like an old man and it’s better - more of a mental thing than anything but not what any leper would call comfort. They say to soak in a warm tub and I say eat a dick and give me Vicodin and they do. Honey’s going to pick up the scrip and I sat down to take my first shit since the knifing. Afraid to push my ugly lunch too far between my legs, I ended up pissing all over my sweatpants. Now I’m going to soak in a warm tub and think about what a great story this would be to tell my children one day.

Tampa Bay made my day but I got fucked on the wager, betting the under 44, so buy my CD or the DVD or simply send me 631 dollars via PayPal. Dave Fulton and Henry Phillips made it down to the bar to watch the game, as well as a halftime appearance by Extreme Elvis who was in town to do a private party. He was in a kind mood and did not urinate on anyone. Sign the mailing list. I'm considering doing a barnstorming run this summer and just crashing towns across the country, playing whatever bar has a stage. The more people I have from your town, the more likely I'll show up there. Spread the word. Pass the CD's and DVD around.   Half Time Show

Belize Cove

Belikin is about the only beer you can get in Belize, or at least in Ambergris Caye and although it’s not very good it’s nice to be able to simply order “beer” without any specifics. And Belikin grows on you. The thing about Belikin is that the bottles are about 4 times as heavy as American beers, like the old Coke bottles so you continue bringing an empty one to your mouth thinking it’s near full. We ordered rounds, several of them, fresh off the plane at the Sundrift Hotel where they have the “world famous” Chicken Drop every Wednesday. Becker had read about the Chicken Drop somewhere in Alaska before the trip so I guess that would validate the “world-famous” claim. Before he explained what it entailed, I immediately assumed that chickens were dropped for some high altitude and you would applaud in Third-World frenzy as the splattered. After our trip last year to Costa Rica, Becker and I toyed with the idea of moving there and starting a pig-skeet farm, where we would raise pigs and then fire them into the air on catapults for tourists to blast with shotguns. Chicken Drop sounded like it might infringe on our master plan.

The Chicken Drop in actually far less brutal. Simply, a chicken is tossed onto a board of numbers - 1 thru 100 - and whoever has purchased the number that the chicken shits on first, wins.

Chicken Throw We bought 20 tickets and we won. The chicken shit on number 22, my new lucky number, and we won 100 dollars Belize, or 50 bucks U.S.

Winner!

Meanwhile, the boil-goiter on the back of my neck kept growing. Quit pickin it, says Honey. It was raining when we arrived and when it stopped it still stayed gray. The major form of transportation, besides walking, is the over-priced rental golf cart. The roads are dirt but in the rain turn to a fine, clay-like mud that - as Becker put it - made the cart steer like a Ouija board.

We didn't have time to fuck around and wait for sun since we were only there for four days. There was tons of shit to do and we didn't want to do any of it, to be honest. We'd considered the baboon reserve or the cave tubing but they were full day affairs and pricey and we were all kind of keen on just drinking on the beach and watching our fat grow. But we'd come all this way so we settled on snorkeling in Shark Ray Alley. They call it Shark Ray Alley because of the Sharks and Rays. They could have at least used Spanish in lieu of originality but it sold us so there you go. They take you out to the reef and give you a rote speech with all the excitement of a senior telemarketer on his last day of work, sucking any imagined risk out of the proposition and then you jump in the water and swim around with these enormous rays and other marine life. Don’t get me wrong, it was still fun as fuck but it would have been really fun if the guide himself had acted like he was scared out of his tit. But instead, he pleasantly loaded us back onto the boat, handed out water bottles to all of us like children who didn’t cry at the dentist. He started up the boat, hit the throttle and after a moment of seeing no progress, he realized that the propeller had fallen off and was now on the bottom of the sea. Back at shore - courtesy of another boat in the area that still had it’s propeller - we were now ready to drink for three days and make excuses for doing little else.

Becker likes Belize. We stayed at the perfect hotel on the beach called the Playador which probably translates into "nice place" or some such thing. Every Spanish name translates into something vague and simple like "warm water" or "big house". They never translate into "misplaced ambition" or "blood-caked offspring", nothing but the obvious. Becker likes Belize more than I do but I like it just fine. I just don't feel like I'm "away" as much as I did in Costa Rica. The dirty here is more of an American dirty as opposed to an undeveloped dirty. You walk down the beach and you see conch shell followed by plastic cup followed by hermit crabs and styrofoam plate. Not East River pollution by any means but each peice of refuse I spot, I can't help but imagine it was left there in a malicious, purposeful manner by some American tourist. A raging fraternity wrestler from Arizona State yelling with his friends about some fruitless date-rape attempt that he was too intoxicated to consumate as he pisses of the pier - dick in one hand while the other tosses garbage. I don't consider that sometimes plastic cups just get blown into the sea, nor do I want to.

It doesn't take long before you get your fill of slogans like "You'd Better Belize It!". Becker found a Hawaiin shirt that had You'd Better Belize It all over it and bought it just to irritate me. So we drank and we skinny-dipped and we slept and we ate and we took pictures of the girls skinny-dipping and when they sobered up we claimed that we'd deleted those pictures and then we drank some more. It was still overcast when we caught the puddle-jumper back to Belize City to catch the flight home. Airport security? The 12 seater plane back to Belize City was full when I got on so I got to ride in the co-pilot seat. Nice. Getting off, we had to claim our bags inside. I couldn't find my claim tag and the luggage guy didn't seem to care that I was the only person of the 12 on board left trying to claim that the only bag left. He asked my name and then checked the permanent tag on the luggage. The name was not mine though - it was the name of whomever left it at the thrift store where I'd purchased it. Becker was laughing at me and I told the luggage policeman that my camera was in the top pocket and had pictures of me throughout. I began to scroll through as he looked over my shoulder and immediately hit the vein of skinny-dipping pictures of our naked wives. The laugh made the whole vacation. Upstairs in the airport bar, the entire staff was wearing the exact same "You'd Better Belize It!" shirt as Becker.

Doug At The AVN Awards

Nina Hartley came over the afternoon of the AVN awards and told me good luck, have fun. Then she told me to stay away from sex jokes - that although you'd think they'd work in this audience, they won't. Talk about a pre-show head-fuck. Like telling her before her first porn shoot "Have fun, be yourself. Just don't take off your clothes." Turns out I could have read baking tips off a Ritz cracker box or blown my head off and no one would have noticed. Porn stars would have stood on my corpse, blood and spoiled dreams leaking from my skull, and tearfully accepted their award for Best Pre-Shoot Enema Blooper or Best Hung Tranny in a Prison Rape Scene. I knew a painful death was coming but there is really no way to prepare for it. Like my upcoming vasectomy, which is now scheduled for January 27th, the day after the SuperBowl. Let's hope he doesn't drink like I do. But I digress.

Chloe, my co-host, was fucking great and really cool to hang with. Other than that, most of the porn stars avoided me - save for Seymour Butts. Seymour Butts won my award for Coolest Porn Star Going Out Of His Way To Talk To The Comic Who's Been Eating His Own Dick On Stage All Night. Backstage, he was getting ready to go up to present an award while at the same time filming some reality show for Showtime. He came over to say good job and what-not and said that it was really fucked up that during my set they had been putting different porn chicks in the audience pulling out their tits up on the many huge screens in the showroom. Thanks for noticing.

I didn't know it while I was on stage, since the screens all faced away from me halfway down a ballroom of some 3500 people. I guess I wouldn't have been listening either. By the time they announced the Best Film (The Fashionistas - highly recommended), most of the people were gone. They call this the Oscars of the porn industry but it isn't. I'd love it if the Oscars were like this. If Gwenyth Paltrow won best supporting actress and then just got up with her whole party and left immediately afterwards - honest in the fact that she could give six fucks about anyone else, then they could call themselves the AVN's of mainstream. Dave Attell was filming Insomniac across the hall at the shithole C2K after-party and we tried to do a segment but I doubt you could hear a word of it over the din of dance music and wall-to-wall thumping ego. By the time my wife and freinds pushed their way in, I had to get the fuck out.   I don't like any situation where someone's status-of-the-moment is their ticket in. My friends from Alaska were standing at the rail offering any lie or cash option to get into this shithole C2K and getting shut down while the manager told the meat-fuck door man that I was "obviously OK" to waltz in. Think if I go back next week and say that I'm the host from the AVN's that I'll be let under the rope? Fuck them. Fuck the shithole Venetian and the shithole C2K. I'm repeating shithole Venetian Hotel Las Vegas and shithole C2K because they are both shitholes and I'm hoping it increases the odds of that coming up on any google search of their names. If you stay in Vegas, Don't stay at shithole rigged machines overpriced baby rape cancer causing Venetion Hotel Casino Las Vegas or club at any shithole AIDS-related terrorist wholesale burn victim bowel affliction smallpox C2K

Stay off the strip - like the Plaza or any of the Station casinos. All in all, it was a great time. Unfortunately I was too fried afterwards and had too many of my own friends and family to hang with to go delving into porn-party evil. When people travel that far to see you just to get the door shut in their face, I'd rather be outside the door with them.

Buy my stuff. Or buy my friendship by simply sending me money via Pay Pal. C'mon, I'm going to Belize tomorrow with my wife and the Becker's. I need money. C'mon, seriously. A lot of money. That's all I need. Pete Townsend jokes seem easy right now but remember that "child porn" is a buzzword for "guilty" anymore. My friend, who has a cunt wife, was going to get a Tracy Lords tape on eBay and I hammered him not to because all she'd have to do is find it and tell a judge that he had "child porn" and he's automatically guilty, regardless of the details. "Child porn" is a used as a buzz-word to get all porn taken away the same way "partial-birth abortion" is used to set precedent to eliminate all abortion. Even if Pete really was whacking off to a 2 year old speared ass-wise on an old man's dick, the kid's not in therapy because of Pete Townsend. I go to rotten.com and look at murder pictures all day but that doesn't make me a murderer or potential murderer. If anything, it makes me wear a seatbelt. Thought Police, Thought Police... You've all seen the news footage of the Cookeville, TN police shooting a happy puppy in the face. If you haven't - google search it. If you watch the video and photo-shop the heads between dog and cop - you can jack off to it. I've been calling the rat fuck titbag horse-blowing laugh when they get shot in the face pig shit Cookeville Police at 931.526.2125 and asking them an array of questions. "My dog just walked in on me masturbating. Is it ok to shoot him in the head?" "The neighbor's dog just brought a tennis ball towards me in a threatening manner. What's a good caliber to make his brains splatter like melon under a truck tire?" "I'm from the Johnson City Babtist Churh and we're having a prayer session for that poor officer who shot that evil puppy and we'd like to have you pray with us. Dear Jesus. Please make Officer Eric Hall's children choke to death on their Christmas presents." Am I suggesting you should do the same? Yes. Email here -http://www.cookevillepolice.com Or send a postcard to Cookeville Police Department Public Safety Building 10 E. Broad Street Cookeville, TN 38501