I am in pain

To properly set the mood, this is necessarily going to be long. For those of you with ADD, just skip to the "summary" and "event" sections.

Thursday

Last Thursday, a group of friends and I had gone out to celebrate another friend's engagement. Since no one in the group had ever been, we decided to go to to cattleman's, a steakhouse famous for the size of its steaks. Of course, before we ate, we had to stop at a nearby tavern to 'wet our whistles'. Then we got there and the girls all wanted wine. So 5 bottles later, the boys decide wine is for pussies and out come the gin & tonics and jack & cokes. That gets old quick and then the martinis start.

We start off with 4 orders of "bacon". Now, I've had all sorts of bacon in my life - smoked, canadian, pancetta, kobe, all with no complaints. But I've never seen bacon quite like this. Still sizzling in its own grease, each plate had 5 strips of what I can only describe as a "pork roll up". They must have been 7" long and 1/2" thick each. (Of course, like all bacon, it was delicious.)

About that time is when the steaks arrive. I neglected to weigh one, but that SOB had to at least have been 3 pounds without the bone. Granted, I was sharing it with Em and the friend's fiance, however, both of them together weigh slightly less than I do. Along with the steaks came the creamed spinach, potatoes of various cuts and deep fried onions. I refused to leave until there was nothing left on the plate. It may have taken 2 hours, but, by gosh, I did it!

Summary

For those of you following along, we have beer, wine, mixed drinks, straight liquor, massive quantities of steak, monster bacon, spinach, fried potatoes and onions. You can probably guess where this story is heading by now...

Friday Morning

As it happened, a bit of careful forethought meant I had planned on taking Friday off from work. In theory, I was just trying to use up my vacation days and we did have tickets to see A Bronx Tale on Broadway that evening. At least, that's the story I told everyone. In reality, I've found that, particularly after I hit 30, my ability to successfully digest alcoholic products had spiraled downwards at an alarming rate.

And, true to form, after falling asleep around 2am the night before, right after 5am the grumblings started. Anyone over the age of 18 (other than Phil) knows what I'm talking about. If you would like to re-create my experiment, take lots of booze + steak + fried crap, stir thoroughly, and let sit for a few hours in your lower intestine. In the darkness, I quietly stumble out of bed and into the bathroom.

Luckily, I must have been a boy scout in a previous life, and had the forethought to pre-stock the john with all the materials I would need for my journey the night before... the new Car & Driver, 3 rolls of TP, a plunger, the extra large industrial strength air spray, and the window wiiiiiide open.

As the countdown had already been in motion for some time, I knew I should be getting myself situated as quickly as possible to avoid a 'premature launch'. To whatever extent I was still asleep, that all changed when the shock of a 50 degree toilet seat and my 98 degree ass made each other's acquaintance. I slapped a hand over my mouth to keep from waking the wife, who was sleeping soundly on the other side of the wall.

I grabbed the C&D, and was perusing the new Lancer EVO article, trying to avoid the earthquake that's taken over my digestive system. As it so happened, my spinchter was already convulsing in fright of what was about to happen to it. A few pre-farts from earlier were still lingering in the air, making my eyes water. And I'm doing my damned best to concentrate on the magazine and not think about the impending damage I was about to inflict on the city's sewage system.

The Event

So, considering the circumstances, I'm actually fairly content at how everything is progressing. Despite the early hour, the magazine is distracting, the fartiness of the air is dissapating, my colon stopped crying, and the toilet was bracing for impact.

That's when it happened.

As the gurgling reached its fevered peak, right at the point of no return, I felt an odd tingling on my pouch. Now, I am no novice to the process. In fact, I'd wager I've gone through this well over 10,000 times before. And no matter how drunk, how passed out, how full of Taco Bell I've been, never, not once, have I ever felt a tickle on my balls.

Intrigued, I lowered the magazine to begin my investigation. My initial instinct was that the sweat that was pouring off my body had collected on the lowest point. Of course, were I a smarter man, I would have realized that sweat wouldn't be dripping from the top of my sac.

Looking down, at first, nothing seemed to be amiss. Then I saw it.

THERE WAS A HUGE FU****** SPIDER CRAWLING ON MY BALLS.

Now, I am a reasonable person. I know spiders are rather helpful creatures and nature's exterminator. I have also watched enough Discovery channel to know that spider bites, even non-poisonous ones, are not something I'd ever want. I don't know where he came from, or why he chose my nutsac upon which to alight, but this bastard was the size of a fifty-cent piece and he looked hungry. And oh yeah, I freaking hate spiders, even when they're not wandering around on my marble bag.

So here I am, a full fledged steak & booze $hit in progress, spider on balls, wife asleep 6" away on the other side of the drywall, me biting on the Car & Driver to not scream like a bitch. At that point in one's life, no matter how highly educated, no matter how evolved one might be, you lose all semblance of higher thought and revert right back to your caveman "fight or flight" response. Unfortunately, in this context, "flight" wasn't possible - at least, not without leaving a snail trail of poo throughout the apartment. That left "fight".

Normally, man vs. spider is a no-brainer. But when you're caught in the grip of abject terror, the odds go right out the window. So I did the only thing I could do in that situation... I began punching myself in the balls as hard as I could. Picture it... 5 am, the stench of dead cow and spinach and booze wafting in the air, and a deranged lunatic in the bathroom punching himself in the nuts with a Car & Driver magazine clenched in his teeth.

As luck would have it, that little bastard managed to escape the 'shock & awe' I unleashed on my balls, only to fall into the bowl. I saw him clinging to a log as I managed, through my tears, to hit the flush lever. As he swirled down to his doom, I'm pretty sure at least two of his eight legs were flipping me the bird.

As for me, I have an appointment to see the urologist on Thursday. I think I may have broken something.

How was your weekend?

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