This post goes too far. A superior edit of it first appeared on In The Powder Room and being a little bit removed provided some cover. But now I’m including it on this blog and it may be too much for those who know me.
In fact, if you’re: my mom, my mother-in-law, Kirsten, Cristina, anyone who works with me, Brian, Jennie, Maggie, Claudio, anyone I’ve ever gone to school with, anyone who is friends with me on Facebook, residents of Chicago and Indiana and the United States, English speakers, and non-English speakers, then you must skip this post. Here, read about the time I stole some doughnuts.
To anyone who is still cleared to read: just promise me we will never meet in real life after you’re done reading. Because I won’t be able to make eye contact.
You can only shave your balls so many times before something goes horribly wrong. For me, that number was twice. The first time was for my vasectomy. The second time was because I was feeling sassy–Mr. Sassy if you’re nasty.
I shaved after my morning shower when my pores were gaping. Then I went about my day like my junk wasn’t planning a mighty revenge.
I took my kids swimming. All day, my shorn, impotent balls floated in communal water. They slapped against my thighs at every dive. They soaked up pool chemicals and stranger DNA.
At one point, a wasp stung me in the face. Right under my eye. I was sure that I would die from the wasp poison in front of my horrified children after my eyes swelled shut and I hallucinated from the pain. But that didn’t happen.
I wiped out the wasp’s nest–killing the offending wasp and everywasp it knew. Satisfied with my pesticide, I put my balls back in the water.
The next morning, I woke up with three testicles.
Haha! Just kidding! Testicles aren’t normally red and throbbing unless you paid a dominatrix to make them that way. No, this thing was no testicle.
It blinked up at me.
Like the Eye of Sauron.
Where sack meets rod.
I didn’t know what it was. I only knew it meant that doctors would have to cut off my johnson. Obviously.
I decided the best course of action was to keep my eye on it. In the Jeff-to-English dictionary “keep my eye on it” means “ignore it while obsessing over it.”
As the days passed–days–I developed several theories about what my new body accessory could be and what it meant for my physical and mental well-being. Each theory more brutal and devastating than the one before.
It had to be:
Cancer. Of course it was. This is my go-to option for every ailment, blemish, and bump my body decides to float out there. And this particular cancer was going to be terminal. Because it meant they’d to cut my dick off to save my life and I would demand that they kill me first.
Blowback from my vasectomy. Somehow the urologist fucked up and now I have a build-up of sperm that can’t find its way out the happy hole. So they’ll continue gathering and gaining and forming a civilization of unborn Jeffs. Eventually, they’ll burst through and explode my dick off.
Supercancer. It’s like cancer only more cancerous. Supercancer happens when I’ve been ignoring my self-diagnosis of cancer for too long. The only treatment: dick, legs, and torso all have to come off.
Hernia. Because I am an occasional athlete. And when you’re racing for the finish line you sometimes pull a muscle. A huge porn-quality muscle. I’ll need surgery to remove the hernia. And somehow the dick will have to go too.
Flesh-eating bacteria. Obvs. This is Woodsmoke we’re talking about! There HAD to be bacteria in the pool and it swam up in my business for a seat at the 24/7 Jeff Buffet. My voracious dinner guests were going to eat all the sweet meat and everything else!
Pulsing sac of wasp babies. This was a big DUH moment for me. It only made sense. All of the sense. When the wasp stung my face, it didn’t shoot venom, it shot eggs and they swam through my bloodstream and ended up in my junk. Because that’s where all the blood flows. And soon a platoon of wasps would mature and burst through my balls and sting the shit out of my face, sending fresh eggs into my bloodstream, perpetuating a cycle of destruction that would only end with my dick chopped the hell off.
These diagnoses percolated for a week as the thing continued to grow and test the elasticity of my nuts. It got to a point where I had to stop being a man and get a professional involved. I called my primary care physician and made an appointment.
He looked at it said, “Yes. Wasp babies. I’ve seen this a million times. It’s gonna hurt like hell. And it’s totally fatal. Glad I’m not you!”
“I said it’s a fur uncle. I’ll write you a scrip for a topical antibiotic. Call me in two weeks if it hasn’t gone away. Get the fuck out of my exam room.”
I left in a daze. A fur uncle? WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT??
I’ve had all kinds of crazy uncles. I’ve had the Don’t Pick At It Uncle. I’ve had the Snowblowers Also Eat Fingers Uncle. I’ve even had the Horses Will Straight Up Rip Your Dick Off Uncle. But I’ve never had a Fur Uncle.
When I got home I told Jill. And she looked it up because I hadn’t thought of looking it up–or asking for clarification when the doctor told me what it was. It’s actually a furuncle. A common boil. And it’s a whole lot lamer than wasp babies.