I would have written this earlier, but the very subject matter caused the delay. While writhing on the ground, it never occurred to me “Wow, this pain is exquisite! I should really go document it now.” Instead I opted to curl up in ball and cry like a little wuss. This was truly my finest hour.

To understand what brought me to this point, we need to rewind two weeks. My girlfriend’s family decided to have a weekend cookout, because that what we do in Michigan when it finally gets up to 45 degrees. Her little brother, his two cousins and a couple other boys they probably picked up hitchhiking all showed up ready to run me in to the ground. Fortunately I am still only thirtysomething and in truly phenomenal shape. Bring it on, little hellions!

I decided to teach them the sadistic game of ball tag (basically dodge ball + tag). It involved much sprinting, hurdling, spinning and any other Madden buttons I am forgetting. Still it wasn’t exactly high impact because the boys all suffer from the common youth disease Bill Cosby refers to as “brain damage”. Guys what are you doing? The idea is to avoid the ball not run after it!! Oh never mind…

And so this went on for the rest of the game. When we were done, I felt no ill effects. I can’t even be sure this game was the culprit. Maybe I slept funny that night. Maybe I ate too much at the cookout and my extended gut pulled things out of place. All I know for sure is by the following evening I couldn’t move without sending a shockwave up my back and ribcage.

This isn’t the first time this is happened. Five years ago I somehow wrenched my back. It took six pointless weeks of physical therapy, before I gave up and went to my mom’s chiropractor. Yes, I realize chiropractors aren’t always the most trustworthy, setting you up on a weekly schedule until your 90th birthday to pay for their great grandkids’ college. Fortunately my doc is the complete opposite. He fixes you up in as few treatments as possible, and as a result has more referral business then he can handle. Funny how that works.

After my initial injury, he took an xray, noted I was a wee bit twisted and straightened me out with about three treatments. I have only had to see him a couple times since and nothing as severe as the first time. That is until now.

That Monday morning I went in to work just long enough to call his office and beg them to squeeze me in. The receptionist said it would be tight but to come on down. When I hobbled in to the waiting room, she took instant pity on me and penciled me in.

I told the doc what happened and he started cracking away. When he got to my neck it popped like a M-80. “What the hell were you doing?” he asked, “playing tackle football?” Sadly no. That at least wouldn’t have been as pathetic. Unless of course I was playing against the Lions.

When he determined I was completely crunched he sent me home. The down side to his miracle treatment though is that the recovery is worse than the injury. My realigned back muscles began to contract like an accordion. It was probably the closest I have ever come to pain induced vomiting. Truly my finest hour. The even downer side is that I am allergic to aspirin, ibuprofen and all other over the counter anti-inflammatory drugs. Desperately I searched the house for something to numb the pain.

***

Coming soon: 99 berries and the enema of doom…

Now that my car is over 110,000 miles, it is showing some real signs of wear and tear. It leaks, it wines, it idles unevenly. The passenger seat is ripped and the steering wheel is crooked. Sadly, I may only get another year or two out of it before trading it in for a newer model.

However when it comes to my body I don’t have that option. The last two months I have been falling apart a piece at a time. I can’t find any newer models for sale, even on EBay (If you don’t believe me, do a search for “handsome narcoleptic bodies” and see how far you get.) All I can do is put my reservation at the DJ Veterans Memorial Rest Home. I am pushing to get in by next week in time for Bingo night - I heard it will be a themed event and got excited when I read “Come party with Ladies from the 80’s”. But then I read the flyer again and realized it said “Ladies in their 80’s”. But hey, experienced women know how to party!

My decomposition started with a rash. A rash in a sensitive area. In medical terms this area is referred to as the “talleywacker”. I’d actually been fighting this on and off for the last year. Finally my skin doctor decided it was time to do a biopsy. I eagerly agreed figuring she would gently scrape a few skin cells and be done with it.

The nurse pulled in a tray covered in torture tools from the Inquisition. Then she left me in the room all alone with the tray for a good fifteen minutes. Hmm wonder what that one is for…is that a syringe??…I wonder if that window is locked from the outside…

Finally the nurse and doc came in. Now I freely admit I have fantasized about two women handling my unit. I am here to tell you it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. The nurse pinned down Mr. Unhappy while the doc went for the torture tray. First came the shot. “A prick to the prick!” I would have joked had I wanted to make myself look like a complete lameoid.

Then the cutting began. The shot missed a spot and I clutched my head. “That hurts?” the doc asked. “Mmmgrfff” I replied. Fortunately the numbness kicked in and I felt no more. I would have been completely fine if I hadn’t noticed the blood on their gloved fingertips.

“Now it’s time for the suture” said the doc. It took a second for this to sink in. Stitches… Penis….I am going to have stitches in my penis…That window can’t be too hard to break….

But it was too late. The doc sewed up Sir Richard and that was that. “See you in ten days” said the doc. Ten days with stitches in my penis…why God, why??? The only good thing was they were at the base of the Tiny Tower so mornings wouldn’t cause any “unpleasant issues”.

It actually wasn’t so bad. They itched a little a first but then I barely noticed them. Except when I peed. Then I was harshly reminded. Stitches…in my penis…I have stitches in my penis.

I finally went in for peter parole two weeks later. The doc said the lab results were back. “So tell me, do you have anyone in the family with psoriasis?” Not that I know of. “Well that’s what this is. It’s usually genetic but the good news is it’s not contagious. (Sidenote to you fellas out there with psoriasis, a great pickup line would be “Hey baby, I’m not contagious!”)

The bad news though was there is no cure and the treatments basically suck. She has me on a steroid cream now. While it has done nothing to increase my bulging muscles, it has helped me get in touch with my moody side. Dark thoughts of buying Nine Inch Nails CD’s have entered my mind.

The problem with steroids though is that as soon as you stop using them, the rash pops back up. There are also the fun long term side effects like potential liver and kidney disease. My optometrist friend Kim kindly pointed out it could also cause glaucoma. Then she sent me a consultation bill for $50.

Needless to say at this point I am researching alternative treatments. Vitamin therapy may be an option, ultraviolet light looks promising and I have not ruled out nuclear radiation. In the meantime though I can confidently look any person I meet in the eye and tell them “I no longer have stitches in my penis.”

***

Coming soon: The backbone’s connected to the everything bone…