Me & the Boys


A couple of words of caution before you find yourself too far into this story to turn back. If you are new here and aren’t used to our occasional PG-13 stories about blood, gore and mucous humor then I would recommend you peruse our more kinder and gentler “galleries” over on the left sidebar. If you’re an Internet pervert and arrived here by Googling some of the terms of which I am about to use then you’ll be highly disappointed. The rest of you regulars, many of who I suspect are closet perverts, please read on and enjoy another one of my foolhardy adventures in health.

Saturday, as you recall, was a rather disappointing day to begin with. Waking up in a camper to the sound of pouring rain outside when you’re due in less than an hour to set up a booth to sell art all day isn’t in my humble opinion one of those Maxwell House moments. “Hello camping neighbor who appears to be related to the banjo player in Deliverance! How about a nice warm cup of Joe? We could sit here and discuss the importance of the Baroque Period as a transitional phase from the Renaissance artists to the Impressionist movement.”

So as I contemplated my decision whether to ride the storm out or just pack up and leave Toothless Junction I went about my normal workday rituals which always begins with a shower. Now our camper shower is obviously small, sort of the size of breadbox but even smaller. Evidently when someone is placed in such confinement to lave for the day discoveries of health interest are imminent. Conversations heard by nearby campers include things like “Ah, I didn’t know I had a hair growing there” or “where the hell are my feet? I used to have some!”


So this particular rainy morning was really dampened by the discovery of a small lump in my…uh…down there…you know…right where you gals have a…what you call a…vajayjay? The little bugger seemed to be partnering up with the left side weight of my wedding tackle. In fact the lump was/is not that little actually. It’s sort of the size of a breadbox but bigger. At least it seemed that size at the time since I was already trying to figure out how to contact Lance Armstrong for advice on wigs and how Sheryl Crow felt about lop-sided guys. Yes, that is a major flaw of mine. Jump to the worst conclusion possible.

I get out of the shower and call Joan to break the news about my dangling chad. Since she is my biggest supporter, athletic or otherwise I felt she should know hubby was soon going to lose a little bit more weight reluctantly. Despite the fact that it was still only 6:30 AM on a Saturday she did her best to console me. “C’mon home, honey. It’s probably nothing but we’ll get a doctor’s appointment Monday. We can Google the problem and look at the funny pictures. If we need ‘em I just sharpened the Fiskars.”

Now let me pause and discuss for a few moments the terminology we’re going to be dealing with here. I consider myself a fairly experienced blogger. It’s not been quite a year yet but I get around the Blogosphere fairly easy. What I’ve come to realize is that women dominate this blogging universe. It just so happens this fact was made even more evident by last weekend’s BlogHer conference, which many of you attended. In the beginning I was a tad uncomfortable at times as I explored new blogs. There was the occasional risk of seeing mention of feminine hygiene products, lactating breasts, and the V-jay (and I don’t mean Martha Quinn or Downtown Julie Brown). These days I can read about a lady having an orgasm on a treadmill and not even blush. I might be green from envy but not red from embarrassment.

However, we’re now going to be talking about the male privates and these are not pretty words like ovaries, vajayjay, or G-Spot. Plus I’m not very comfortable with talking about my you-know-what unless I’ve been drinking. Okay I lied. I do talk about them quite a bit but hardly ever on the Internet. I can’t even use slang in Googling the subject matter or in my eventual discussion with my internist. Hairy Putter, Mr. Wiggles, Shotgun Willie and the Outlaws, nut sack, ball bag, Tadpole Condos, Gravy Makers, The Blasters, Mr. McGoober and the Raisonettes, The Grapes of Baby Winery, Kid Rock and the Lil’ Johns are all right out.


Instead I have to express it this way: a soft lump seems to be attached to my left testicle inside my scrotum. Eeeewwwah! The word “testicle” sounds like a part of a church where circumcisions take place. And scrotum? That sounds like road kill leftovers.


And so I spent the rest of the weekend making sure my will was up to date, wondering if I was going to walk funny, and staring at disgusting pictures on medical websites. I will tell you that I confided about the situation to KimmyK who happens to be a nurse and I do appreciate her not snickering too much as she replied to my e-mail. Despite her opinion that it was probably something other than testicular cancer but if I did have a love grenade lopped off folks would hardly notice the limp, I still worried. So I fell asleep Sunday night thinking of Sammy Davis, Jr. for some strange reason.

To be continued...and trust me when I say you don't want to miss it...