1 New Message
This is a text exchange that happened to me not too long ago. Think I’m okay to post it now the heat has died down but just in case I’m still in the dog house (so to speak) I’ve changed the names of those involved. Enjoy.
*BZZ BZZ*
Stan: Hey mate. Where is it you send your dog when you go away?
Me: Newcastlepetresort.com.au I cannot recommend them highly enough. Why, thinking of checking the Mrs in for a spell?
Stan: This is the Mrs, I’m using Stan’s phone >:(
Me: … woof? …
Ps I can’t help but feel a 
would have made that above faux pas a bit softer…
Filed under 
Movember: Having a ball
Some time a few years ago I was experiencing a slightly sore left nut, sorry, testicle (to keep it medical). It seemed higher than normal and was more uncomfortable than anything. So, despite how awkward it felt, I did the right thing went to the doctor. The man doctor (phew) told me to take off my pants. He then took an inordinate period of time asking me questions while I stood there yogi style. Surely he could’ve asked me the questions while I was still in pants and then have me take them off?
Once he’d finished with the long list of questions he began his inspection. There are few things weirder than being nude from the waist down and have someone inspect your junk, I literally didn’t know where to look. When he was done he told me I was “well hung” (he was referencing the nut itself unfortunately) but referred me for an ultra sound none the less, just to be on the safe side. The number of people to have witnessed my balls was now growing exponentially.
The ultrasound doctor (another dude) was grumpy chap. I’d obviously interrupted his lovely day rubbing glowing, elated pregnant womens bellies with my maybe defective ball bag.
When you go in for a testicular ultrasound they make you do this thing where you fold you dick, sorry penis, up against yourself with a little towel leaving the testicles isolated and hanging out on their own. I guess it’s so they’re not constantly not having to knock your penis out of the way but it also helps you feel like you’re retaining some dignity. Then comes the lube.
The doctor lubed up my balls with no less than a handful of lube. Not a squirt, not a drop but a scoop of lube and then proceeds to draw tracks over my balls with a small vegetable peeling looking device. He tells me he is measuring circumference and diameter and looks for anything generally out of the norm… The silence is brutal… It’s a good 15 minutes or more of this dude covering every inch of your boys while you watch a screen that doesn’t look like anything more than smoke.
What’s that? Is that normal? That’s not a 3rd one is it?
Thankfully, my nuts are perfectly normal.
He handed me some paper towel to de-lube my balls (not nearly enough) and left the room. As he left he said if I took my referral to the x-ray people down the hall I could get a print out like the pregnant women do. I really wanted to get it so I could keep it in my wallet and show people “the twins” but with my balls still quite lubed and uncomfortable I decided to leave, walking out like John Wayne through a room full of pregnant women.
So why the sore ball you ask? Well, I found out a week later while at the osteopath that it was probably due to my starting to do some sit-ups and exercise after a prolonged period of inactivity. My ball was hanging a bit different and it was probably just getting in the way a bit more than usual and thus a bit sore and uncomfortable… huh.
The 
purpose of this story is to show that as embarrassing as it might seem to go through something like this, it’s the same for all blokes and the peace of mind you receive makes it worthwhile. It could also save your life, so if you’re worried about your balls, you should just bite the bullet and get them checked out. A little embarrassment never hurt anyone, and you will probably get a killer story out of it!
And in the spirit of embarrassment I am participating again in this years Movember. If you like the idea of a ranga trying (note: trying) to grow some lip pubes and failing miserably please donate to me. Or just donate in general, it is a great cause and a lot of fun.
Middle Finger Epilogue
The six months after the horrific accident that nearly lost me my middle right finger were frustrating, boring and painful. With my whole right hand, my main hand, out of action even the most menial of tasks were an effort. Wrapped up in a ball of bandages for most of this time, the finger was still extremely raw and sensitive, even a slight bump would bring on a wave of intense pain that would bring me to the point of vomiting.
Here are some things suffered from the receiving the most painful (and painfully lame) accident of all time:
I had to drop out of uni for a semester because my hand was useless. I was in the final stages of my Visual Communication degree and was left unable to do any practical (or impractical for that matter) work what-so-ever. My only choice was to defer and hope i could pick it back up in 6 months (Fingers crossed… well, finger crossed).
My diet had become finger food (ironically). I had to have meals pre-cut for me so i could eat with just a fork. I wasn’t able to hold a knife let along provide the pressure needed to cut things. Anything i could cook without actually cooking and pick up with one hand became my only rations.
I had to learn to wipe my bum left handed. I know, it sounds silly, but have you ever attempted a wipe with your other hand? Give it a go, i’ll wait… See, the co-ordination isn’t quite there, is it? The first few times did not go so well but I eventually found my groove… so to speak.
I was off the road for a few months, unable to drive my manual car. I think even an automatic would’ve caused me grief. I was house bound (I don’t do public transport). I’d have probably hitch hiked but holding my hand out for that amount of time to thumb down a ride would’ve made me pass out from pain.
My dating life (which wasn’t much to begin with, let’s be honest) was now non-existent. My injury wasn’t quite so bad that I got any sympathy and wasn’t quite so good that I could carry on as if it didn’t happen. There is nothing cool about an injury that was a result of sitting on your own hand, no girls want’s to date a dude with a busted finger. Needless to say, my left hand “pulled up the slack” on those duties too.
As you can see, this seemingly simple injury had utterly destroyed my life.
12 months later…
So, after a long year finally a hint nail was attempting to grow, but it struggled. Nails being made up of hair meant that the new nail was growing out from the knuckle like piano wire. You know that pain from when your cuticle is cut a bit short? Imagine that 24-7… Brutal. Putting my hand in my pocket too quick would make me dizzy with pain.
It was about this time I could first start resuming day to day tasks such as writing, cutting, drinking & wiping that had eluded me for those previous months.
Today…
And here it is almost 8 years later… I still have nerve damage up the arm and neck from it, and if it is cold it aches (he says like a war veteran), but for the most part it has healed up nicely, definitely much better than the Doctor (who had considered chopping it off at the knuckle) had prepared me for. It still looks a little odd but it has left me with a hell of a story.
The finger today is a little different looking but I think it has given him character. If you ever meet me in real life, yes, I will let you see and touch the finger.
So, i guess the moral of the story is always be careful sitting down, lest you cause yourself debilitating, grievous bodily harm… or something to that effect.
The Subway Principal
This year was my 10th consecutive Anzac day celebrated at my local bowling club at Kahibah and every year I watch as the young, naive people who don’t frequent the club swarm in and not know how to line up for a beer.
For those who don’t know, bowling clubs often employ the Subway Principal as the preferred line up method to get a beer.
The Subway Principal is quite simple and follows the line up rules that Subway*, the successful sandwich maker uses. That is, to line up along the bar rather than line up deep. Keep the people moving along conveyor belt style, keeping the line moving.
It’s origin’s stems from those drinkers who got sick of leaving the bar and having to carry their drinks through the crowd of people lined up behind them. Some snazzy thinkers realised that less beer was spilt by moving along rather than through.
The bar staff never falter from serving only those only operating within the proper line up method. If you’re lining up behind people and being neglected they will not explain to you the error of your ways as they’re probably too busy working efficiently with those who know how to line up.
Nothing frustrates me more than watching those who crowd around the back of the group wondering why they aren’t getting served. I will often go out of my way to educate those poor souls who so want a beer but a too dim to notice why those in front of them are getting served while they are getting no closer to the bar.
There is something rewarding about going to line up yourself and seeing a young fella you just taught getting served with a smile on his face, chuffed to have discovered the secrets of the elusive line.
There are obviously exceptions to the rule. If no one is at the bar you can obviously walk right up. If there is a bowler or an older member of the club, let them go in front of you. But for the most part, if you live by the Subway Principal you’ll be fine.
So, in the interest of helping the young learn this sophisticated and effective lining up process i’ve included a diagram below.
*This post is no way sponsored, supported or endorsed by Subway ™… even though they’re delicious…
Middle Finger Pt III
Part One is here, part 2 here…
So there I was, home alone, stranded, unable to drive anywhere due to my finger but desperately needing medical help to change my bandages. I ran a few options over in my head. I could stay in my new pool of blood until someone came home in 8 hours? Was phoning triple 0 too much? Ultimately, I had no choice but to do it myself. My biggest fear was unraveling the massive ball of bandages to find my finger had come off all together, like a really macabre pass the parcel.
So I sat myself in the bathtub, no water and started the slow painful process of slowly removing the blood soaked dressing . The pain I felt while taking them off, the bandages pulling off the freshly burned skin, was unlike anything I’ve felt before… I blacked out briefly twice and threw up once, that was how much it hurt… I kept expecting to see a hint of bone protruding from the mess that used to be my hand.
I got to the end and had revealed a still attached, bone on the inside “finger” of blood and blackened flesh. It was a sight. And a relief. I cleaned it up as best I could & re-bandaged it. I took a handful of painkillers and went for a nap on the lounge. Out of fear of waking up to a bloody lounge I put my hand in a plastic shopping bag just before I passed out.
When I awoke a few hours later I thought i best try clean my blood drenched sheets. I put them on a wash, had a few more of my painkillers, grabbed my plastic bag and had another medically induced nap.
I’m lucky I don’t live in Ramsey street because the Neighbours would have been all a flutter had they seen me hanging my blood splattered sheets out like some sort of serial killers flag. Harold would had a heart attack.
This was going to be the final chapter in the Middle Finger Saga (if Twilight is a saga so is this) but I will finish it up next week with an Epilogue of life as a 9 and a half fingered person.
