Thanksgiving And My Balls

WARNING: THE FOLLOWING STORY CONTAINS WORDS LIKE “SHOTS,” “PENIS,” “VAGINA,” and “TESTICLE.” OF COURSE, THIS IS NOT THE SHOTS/PENIS/VAGINA/TESTICLE STORY I WISH I HAD EXPERIENCED AND WAS NOW TELLING. DON’T PRETEND LIKE YOU DON’T FOLLOW. YOU WERE ALREADY THINKING ALONG THOSE LINES ANYWAY. PERV.

There I was, Thursday night, fast asleep. Dreaming of the two days I had just spent celebrating Thanksgiving. Remember this point, because I’m coming back to this. It’s important. Like, “did someone just kick me in the crotch???” important.

I’ll explain later.

Wednesday, my mom made Thanksgiving dinner, including all the traditional dishes. It was great, and my whole family had a delightful time.

That night, after everyone was finished eating and letting their food settle, I went out with my friends to the bars. The Wednesday before Thanksgiving is a BUSY night at the bars. All the college kids are home for the holiday. So, my two friends and I headed out to a few different places.

First, we went to one to wish a friend-of-a-friend happy birthday. We drank Guinness and then had a shot of Tequila. And when people suggest doing shots, it seems customary to do it like everyone is disagreeing with them.

“Oh, no, we’re doing shots, dude. You get over here. No, man, we’re doing ‘em. Hey guys, we’re doing shots! Get your fucking asses over here!”

But in my brief experience drinking, no one is ever disagreeing with the idea.

I met a girl there that I had met before, but hadn’t seen for a while. I thought she was cute then, and I think she’s cute now. I talked to her for a good forty-five minutes. Ignoring my friends? Sure I was, but they would have done the same to me. In fact, they have. But I did get her phone number, which I don’t usually do, because I’m just not that kind of picking-up-girls-at-a-bar guy. I know, you’re shocked. I mean, I will often physically pick them up to move them from my path and show off my superhuman strength. But that’s neither here nor there.

We went to another bar to meet up with some other folks. We did another shot. Again, someone suggested doing shots like we had never done shots before that night and like everyone was against the idea, which no one was. This happened twice more throughout the night. Each time more exciting than the last. And of course, less sober, too. I’m not going to lie: a few people threw up. I never do, for a few reasons.

One, I’m Irish. Reason number two is something I learned from a wise old monk in the mountains of Tibet. When you think you may be on the verge of vomiting, say, “No, thank you. I do not require any more alcohol.” Works every time.

Eventually we all went out to eat to sober up a little and it was a great time, I have to say. I had the fish.

Thursday we went to my Grandma’s house for Thanksgiving dinner. Of course, she out-did herself as always. It was a great time. Except for when some douche bag backed into my uncle’s BMW and then drove off. We never got the license plate number. So if you come across a guy with no penis and a vagina for a head, call the Kenosha, WI police department. Thanks.

Which brings us to Thursday night/ Friday morning. I have to work at 9:30AM. It’s about 2:30AM and I suddenly wake up with the most severe pain I’ve ever felt... down there. My left testicle. It felt like someone had just kicked me there. I couldn’t put any pressure on it, from any angle. I couldn’t lay on my stomach, my side, my back. Obviously that leaves few options.

SOMEHOW, I slept. I think. I don’t know, maybe I was just in so much pain that I stared at my wall and hallucinated, making myself think I was sleeping. Regardless, I have to remember to send the old Indian woman who helped me walk through that desert a fruit basket or something. That was mighty decent of her.

When I came to, I prepared for work. Showering was interesting. Putting pants on was interesting. The question of the day: Do I wear boxers or briefs today? Usually the question is arbitrary, but today it actually meant something. Do I want the extra support and extra pressure, or do I want more freedom and movement. Turns out, after a little trial and error, it didn’t even matter. It hurt like hell regardless.

It hurt to walk, ladies and gentlemen. And, in my job, I do a lot of walking around and a lot of lifting. Usually, I’ll listen to NPR in the morning to keep me relaxed, but even Terry Gross couldn’t help my balls. They hurt. I never told anyone, of course. How do you tell your boss and fellow co-workers that?

“Yeah, I think I’m going to punch out early. MY BALLS really hurt. Like, a lot. I feel like my left testicle is going to pop out of my scrotum. See you tomorrow!”

It’s not exactly poetry. Unless, maybe, I wrote it like this. Imagine there are bongos, berets, and fingers snapping. Perhaps a tambourine, too. Of course, like real poetry, this won’t rhyme, and will make little or no sense.

Oh, Sweet Pain Of Man

Left testicle
Oh, despair!
Explosion of a thousand suns
Brother Earth, Sister Moon
Testes of the solar system
Walk, walk!
Cry, cry!
BOXER rebellion
Mandatory DeBRIEFing
To leave the workplace
Whoa is me!
But my balls be hurtin'

I did leave work early. For you guys, imagine you’ve been kicked in the crotch. All day long. That’s what it felt like. For you girls, well, I don’t know what the female equivalent would be. Use your imagination.

It’s Sunday and I feel fine now. Still a little pain, but it’s tolerable. I think I pinched a nerve or something. That’s the only thing I can think of. But at least I was able to use this awesome poem I’d been saving for just such an occasion.