You may not know this, but I am a guy, meaning I have a wiener and two gigantic brass balls. One of the ways you can tell I’m a guy is how I am never ever sick enough to go to the doctor. Men don’t have to you know. First of all, our manly immune systems basically run on hard liquor and testosterone, so we burn off most harmful organisms. Anything that may sneak past our white blood cells is probably not important anyway, I mean, if my body thought it was cool enough to join the party, then who am I to say no. Also, pain makes us manlier, so suffering through sickness and injury actually grows our peen, making us even gnarlier than we already were, and attracting women to us on a subliminal level.
I figure, if my problem isn’t bad enough to kill me, then I don’t really need a doctor in the first place, and seeking help for an issue I could grit my teeth and soldier through would make me a girl. And if it is a fatal problem, then I still don’t need a doctor because I’m going to die. At that point all I need is a few hookers, a drug dealer, and a mortician. My list of really bad ass shit I’ve dealt with without the aid of so called “medical professionals” could fill entire volumes, but we don’t have time for the entire saga. Here are just a few examples.
When I was working on a construction crew in Charlotte I dropped a box of metal strips on my hand, bending the last knuckle of my ring finger until it broke the bone where it connects to the ligament. Did I cry? Hell no, men don’t have tear ducts, I cut up a metal strip and duct taped my finger to it and kept working for the rest of the week. Now my finger is crooked and knobby, but I still have my manhood, so I win. Me one, medicine zero.
I was driving a scooter down the highway one night when some punk ass rednecks ran me off the road in their truck. I crashed and rolled for a while in the gravel. Did I get a doctor? No, I did not. I got back on the scooter, drove the hour back to my house in sub freezing temperatures, and bandaged myself up. Half my chin got the skin ripped off, along with several other severe lacerations and general meat removal. I’ve got some sick scars from it, but I lived. Me two, medicine zero.
For the last month or so I’ve been getting some pretty intense stomach pain. The sort that starts like heart burn, and quickly turns into your heart actually bursting into flames, and hellfire and brimstone spewing from my mouth and nose, and occasionally even my eyes. (Back to the manly tear ducts thing. It’s complicated medical stuff, you wouldn’t understand) Well the other night I woke up with a wicked burning in my belly and the feeling like my dinner might be about to jump ship. So I got up and went to the bathroom, and lo and behold my stomach was full of blood. I don’t know if you’ve ever vomited a bunch of blood before, but it can be disconcerting. That is if you aren’t a total bad ass like me, I know no fear. (except for jelly fish and clowns) (and spiders) (and heights, but whatever) I am fairly sure I have an ulcer, but screw the doctor, Josh needs no assistance. I figure lots of people had to deal with ulcers before medicine conjured up some new magic sugar pill to heal them, so why can’t I. By the way, if anyone knows how to cure ulcers without a doctor, let me know, cause this one really is starting to be a pain in the ass. So uh, me two and a half, medicine still zero.
This brings me to my tale involving one of the few times it is ok to seek medical help. That being, it involved my … um … beef steeple. Now when your junk is in peril it is perfectly ok, nay, highly advisable that you seek medical treatment. If it falls off you will become a eunuch. Or maybe that’s just when you lose your balls. So you become a man loving fairy. Actually, I think they still use their wieners, though I’m not sure what for since they don’t like vaginas or chick porn. Anyway, like I said, you turn into an ugly chick and have to move to a penal colony (no pun intended) of shame where healthy guys who still have their junk will fly over head in zeppelins and hurl rotting produce at you as they chant catchy slogans about how much you suck.
I’ve got this terrible suspicion that God hates me enough to curse me with kidney stones. Now from what I had heard about them they are basically mineral rocks shaped like razor wire and covered in lemon juice. They are roughly the size of cantaloupes and slowly rape their way down the old pisser until they eventually plop out in a shower of blood, instantly killing you.
So I was laying in my bed one night, sleeping like a baby. (This was back before I cut back on drinking and was still able to actually sleep well) I remember feeling this throbbing pain in my gut. It would come like a wave, starting with a faint murmur of discomfort, and growing in intensity until I was doubled over. I somehow managed to roll back over and sleep again for a few rounds of my internal tug of war, but quickly it escalated to the point where I was wide awake and beginning to suspect a medical emergency was befalling me. The pain would be gone for a minute or two as I regained my breath and composure, but sure as the tide it would return with even more fury than the previous wave.
The pain was low in my belly, right about mid happy trail, and didn’t really seem to be coming from one spot. More like an entire area. I had to do something, and I was already up, so I threw on some pants and cripple walked to the bathroom. I might as well pee if I had to suffer right? So I did, I peed long and hard, and as I sat there doing my best Austin Powers impression (minus the standing, which was impossible at this point) I seriously pondered whether I should call 911 and get some medical professionals there to hold my hand as I passed these terrible stones of evil. I decided against it, since I already felt emasculated enough and public agony outside of combat is almost always a wussy thing to go through.
So I sat there and waited, and waited, and continued waiting for a very long time. The agony in my innards was almost too much to take and I was, I will admit it, a little bit scared. I mean, who wants to die on the toilet? Even Elvis looked like a douche, and he was rich and famous. How would some poor nobody look when they found his grimacing corpse plopped on a crapped full of blood, and possibly entrails? Stupid, that’s how. And fuck that, Josh doesn’t ever look stupid involuntarily.
So I gritted my teeth and dealt with the pain. The searing never ending pain. Then I heard a noise, just a little gurgle in the intestine area. Almost nothing. And I thought to myself, “That almost sounded like diarrhea. But there’s no way, I mean you know what diarrh…”
BLAM!!!!! The last months worth of food exploded out my ass. It was a tirade of hell. The substance I encountered can’t even be called poo. It was poo water. I began to miss my precious anticipated kidney stones. I can’t even explain to you the force of the mass exodus, nor can I truly relate the pain and discomfort. I would compare it to childbirth, but at least then you kind of like what comes out. And it wouldn’t end. The seconds stretched into minutes. The minutes stretched into weeks. At one point I had to cut off the beard I grew because owls and field mice began using it as a home. Sad thoughts started to cross my mind.
What will they put on my tombstone?
If I survive this, my Maxim calendar will probably be out of date.
This must be what that hunter from Dream Catcher felt like right before he released that evil weasel-eel thing that killed the guy from Mallrats, except he went quick.
Dear God, I know me and you don’t always see eye to eye on
anything everything, but please just end this now. “This” being my life, I’m not asking for much here dude. Seriously, like maybe a pillar of fire, or some lightning, or a swarm of killer bees. I don’t care just make it stop.
And eventually it did stop. After what seemed like eons of pain it finally ended. It took me a few minutes to recover enough to move, and when I did it was to the shower because nothing solid was coming near my butt again for a long time. (ie: toilette paper) After I got cleaned up I went back to bed and the sweet release of sleep swept over me. To this day I have no idea what caused the tragic mudslide of ’07, but sometimes when a foul wind blows I can almost feel that deceptive little gurgle in my belly that was the war horn of the commode battle. I shudder at the thought and sincerely hope you never, ever, ever have to experience anything like it. I’m still scared of kidney stones, but there is no way they are worse than the horrors I have seen.
Fuck you Montezuma, fuck you hard with no lube you sick son of a bitch.