James claimed that his were purposely implanted by government agents, but mine were acquired by accident. While drilling postholes for a new section of fence behind the barn, I was violently racked by the handle of a motorized posthole auger. I guess I hit a rock or a big tree root, because the handle of the gas-powered drill jumped out of my hands and spun directly into my crotch. In addition to a huge purple bruise that developed on my thigh, my left testicle began to swell. After my balls continued to expand overnight at an alarming rate, I decided to seek the advice of a physician.
Let me first say that I would rather have my prostate examined by a doctor with hulk hands than go through the battery of ballsack tests and manipulations that I endured. Adhering to the policy of my PPO, my primary care physician examined me first.
Upon arriving at the doctor’s office, the nurse put me in the exam room, handed me a hospital gown and told me to completely disrobe, including my underwear. I promptly informed her that I was going commando due to the fact that my left nut was the size and color of a racquetball. She immediately left the room in disgust.
Shortly thereafter, the doctor came in and asked me how the injury had occurred. I gave him all of the horrific details of how the motor auger handle hit me square in the coin purse with a full 5 hp. of Briggs and Stratton mechanical torque. He cringed and turned away saying, "Ohhh my... Ohhh my..." He then requested that I lay back on the exam table so he could take a look at the damage. I saw him cringe, then crack a smile and almost snicker as he looked at my swollen quailskin. That sadistic bastard was laughing inside at the view of my bruised leg and testicles.
Then he touched my balls…
Nothing, and I mean nothing is more uncomfortable than lying on your back, spread eagle, having a middle aged gray haired man play with your balls. He kept squeezing my injured left cod, asking "Do you feel pressure or pain?"
I grit my teeth and replied with "If you squeeze it like that again, you’re gonna be in more pain than I am now."
After a lengthy digital exam, he left the room. I sat alone, humiliated and hurt. My danglers were throbbing and I was sitting 1/2 naked on a table with a paper cover, much like a full body ass gasket in a gas station bathroom. When Dr. Mengle returned, he informed me that my condition was a bit outside his realm of specialization and referred me to a Urologist.
Two hours later, I laid spread eagle on another ass-gasket covered exam table while a middle-aged, gray haired Pakistani dick specialist fondled my swollen gonads. I now have a newly found respect for women and their gynecological plight.
All of this genital probing resulted in the diagnosis of severely bruised testes that were causing a build-up of fluid in between the inner layers of tissue that shroud my balls. He gave me a prescription for an anti-inflammatory and I prayed that the drugs would reduce the fluid build-up in my sack before my follow-up appointment four days later. If the drugs didn’t work, I would be left with no other option than to endure the most horrific medical procedure that the Pakistani witch-doctor could come up with.
In Dr. Gandhi’s words, "I will need to draw off the excess fluid."
Four days later, leftie was still the size and color of Shaquille O’Neal’s fist; I had to go back to the doctor. I have never been more apprehensive about anything in my whole life. The drugs did not make the swelling in my ballbag go away. Just as that goddamned witchdoctor said, he would need to perform a procedure to draw the fluid off of my sack. He said that it was a very minor procedure and that the pain would be minimal.
I knew it would be bad when they gave me 2 Valium to "relax me". They left me alone in the room for about 20 minutes, presumably for the Valium to take effect. Rather than zone out in a relaxed, drug-induced haze, I spent the 20-minute eternity visualizing all of the scenarios of how “the procedure” could go wrong. When the doctor finally came back into the room, he asked me how I was doing. I let him know that the Valium wasn’t working and then suggested he bring in a dick- anesthesiologist to give me some kind of genital epidural.
Dr. Deepak then tried his version of a motivational speech; he just smiled and told me that this would be a very, quick and easy procedure and that I wouldn’t really feel a thing. He then proceeded to give me a shot of local anesthetic at the base of my nutsack where it connects to my taint. Let’s just say that this was the least invasive thing that he did to me that day…
After an embarrassing few minutes of him staring at my wedding tackle, he said, "You may feel a bit of pressure..."
Pressure my ass! That dog-eating bastard stuck something the size of a gutter spike into my ballbag. I yelled out in pain as the bruised skin that houses my testicles was impaled by a Pakistani ninja torture sword. It felt like he had jammed that thing up into my nuts about two or three inches deep. He cradled my testicles in his hand and moved them around, almost like he was massaging them. But this was no erotic massage, it was nothing less than Geneva Convention banned P.O.W. torture.
"Yes, it is aspirating nicely..." he said.
"It doesn't feel too nice." I replied.
When he grew tired of fondling my genitals, he yanked out the telephone pole that was sticking out from the base of my cods. He monkeyed around down there for a while longer, mumbling something about seepage, hydrogen peroxide and cotton balls. He arose from behind the veil of doom that was draped over my knees and proclaimed that he was finished. I collected my prescriptions for more anti-inflammatory pills and antibiotics, and left the office in shame.
I’ve never felt so violated…
I’ve never felt so violated…