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Strove to find a way to punch people in the face by using the Internet.

1/06/2004

DIARY OF INDIGNITIES
November, 1987 – Okay, it’s not exactly getting an eyeball scraped with a razor blade, but one time a doctor stuck a Q-Tip in the pee-hole of my wing-wang. By Q-Tip, I refer to the cotton-tipped swab, not the pleasant fellow rapping on the TV that all you kids seem to like so much these days. Still, it was mighty uncomfortable.

It all started with one of those rare bouts of sexual intercourse that included participation from both myself and a living, female human being. And, happily, I did not render myself unconscious at any point during the brief consummation of the act. Though I did get a little distracted wondering why girls that act all liberated and dirty and sexually adventurous with their clothes on always turn out to have so many uptight rules when it’s naked time: “What are you doing?! Sorry, I don’t do that. Don’t touch me there! Don’t look at me! Just what do you think you’re going to do with THAT thing?! Untie these ropes right now! I’m allergic to dogs!” Etc.

Anyway, I lay there as instructed, flat on my back with my arms at my sides, staring at the ceiling while my partner ground away, satisfying her sadly pedestrian urges. The television was on at the other end of the room, and at one point I got kinky and sneakily tried to watch the video for Big Audio Dynamite’s “C’mon Every Beatbox” (which is a bad jam) over her shoulder, but her stupid hair got in the way.

A week or so later my nether regions developed a mild itch. Now, this was hardly unprecedented. My groin area was (and is) a thing of mysterious, uncomfortable functions. And, biologically speaking, the male crotch is as unpleasant as, well, the word “crotch,” and is considered by leading scientists to be the source of much that is evil in this world. Many men routinely experience itchiness and mild groin discomfort, as evidenced by my personal observations of the standard greeting employed in my apartment back when most of the band Hot Water Music took up residence in my living room:

“Christ, do I ever got me a case of the man-itch. I’ve been putting ice cubes on my balls all day.”

“No shit? My red-ass was so bad yesterday I scratched it with the cheese grater.”

Despite the prevalence in society of this sort of relatively benign male itchiness, I nonetheless heroically summoned my full powers of neuroses and convinced myself that my discomfort was the direct result of those recent romantic fumblings. “Great,” I thought. “Chlamydia. My reward for an awkward orgasm that was just slightly less satisfying than a good sneeze.”

I didn’t want it to fester too long, so, being unemployed and destitute, I made an appointment to go see the fine doctors at the free clinic. Where I had this delightful exchange:

“What are your symptoms, Mr. Hughes?”

“Well, doctor, I did it with a girl who’s considered to be kind of slutty, though frankly her performance didn’t live up to her reputation. And now my ding-a-ling is itchy.”

“Hmm. Have you experienced any discharge?”

“Uhhh… Discharge? Ew. Thankfully, no.”

“Can you milk up some discharge?”

“Can… I… milk… up… some… discharge?!”

The doctor unwrapped a Q-Tip that was about three feet long. “If you can’t milk up some discharge for us to test, I’m going to have to painfully ream out your pee-tunnel with this bad motherfucker,” he said. (Those might not have been his exact words.)

“Fuck! I’m milking! I’m milking!” But it was to no avail. I sat there frantically yanking and tugging on my peener for a full minute, but my sad little pee-hole was as dry as the desert sands. It coughed up a miniature tumbleweed and a few grains of dust, and the doctor smiled as a malignant gleam crept into his eyes.

“No discharge, eh? Taste the brutal Q-Tip of destiny, pee-hole!” (Again, those might not have been his exact words.) He held that fucking thing waaaaay back at one end and with a sniper’s accuracy plunged that thing down a pipe which had until now been an exit-only orifice. My scream, which cracked the glass on his framed diploma, was cut short by a choking cough as the cotton end of the swab made its way up my throat and out my mouth.

He twisted and worked that thing around like he was churning butter, then after what seemed like an eternity withdrew it with a sickening “plop.” When I was done crying he had me fill out a few forms and handed me a bottle of antibiotic pills.

“The lab will contact you with the results for you in two weeks, Mr. Hughes,” he said. “In the meantime, take two of these a day on an empty stomach, and stay away from dairy products. And, um… call me sometime, okay?”

The clinic called two weeks later. Turned out nothing was wrong with me. Or with my pee-hole, anyway. Except for a lingering soreness.

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