Balls and Walnuts
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Editing update, and a snippet
6 Reasons for my present brain-fry:
- I’ve begun line-editing my manuscript. Status: 12.5% done.
- Four loads of laundry.
- Two loads for the dishwasher.
- Cooked a ham, candied yams, and eggplant parmigiano.
- Went to the gym. Thanks to the summer cold, I’m out of shape again, but I still managed a 25-minute workout.
- Trip to the grocery store and drug store.
Here’s my editing strategy. Never having edited a novel before, I can’t tell you if these are bright ideas or not.
- Run through the text, correcting all major errors and omissions I’ve thought of during the writing process. DONE.
- First hard copy edit. Catch all the little shit, and the big shit, too. (Such as Karen’s comment from a few minutes ago: “Why don’t the Kirbys just return to their lander when the mugwasps fly in?” Um . . . because I really, really want them to head down into the spider caves?) 12.5% complete.
- Second run-through on the text, this time making the changes in computero which I’ve penciled in at step 2. That’s when I’ll be adding and deleting scenes.
Since I do much of the coarse editing with the very first writing, the manuscript is already in pretty good shape. Mostly, I need to fix consistency issues. For example: Brakans are birds (sort of). They do not sleep in beds. They do not use pillows. That sort of thing.
And now, because you’ve been good, here’s your snippet for the day. This comes at the end of Chapter Six, when Commander Brek has successfully recruited all forty Colonel Kirbys from the master-creator of synthetic humans, Whizzer Ugh. (Colonel Kirby was John Wayne’s character in The Green Berets.) Jeannie is another synthetic human modeled after Barbara Eden, circa I Dream of Jeannie.
Thirty-nine Kirbys filed into the choppers while one remained behind, lingering in Jeannie’s embrace. The two lovers’ eyes were locked, and he rubbed the small of her back forcefully with both hands, as if he might join her forever to him. When the lieutenant blew his whistle, this last Kirby pulled himself from Jeannie’s arms and marched to the nearest chopper. She crumpled to her knees, her anguished cries muted by the choppers’ mounting roar.
Campy melodrama ;o)
D.
PS: Beth has something on her mind. Please, for the love of God, don’t tell her where I live.
SF love triangles
Smart Bitch Sarah wrote a cool post on love triangles today. I encourage you all to read about the misadventures of Aragorn/Arwen/Eowyn, Archie/Veronica/Jughead, and a bunch of others.
I can’t let a good joke drop, not when it has much more cherry mileage. Here, then, are a few additional triangles for your discussion, from a world closer to home.
Captain Kirk/Mr. Spock/Nurse Chapel
Sure, Christine digs the Vulcan cervical neck pinch, but ol’ J. Tiberius has that power thing going for him. How frustrating it must have been for Christine to watch Kirk cavort with one snatch-o’-the-week after another; I’ll bet she and Yeoman Rand used to have whopping grand bitch sessions over a couple pints of Romulan ale, ending in declarations of, “MEN! What do we need them for, anyway? Come on, Christine, it may not be a Vulcan pinch, but I have fingers, too, and I know how to use them.”
But Kirk’s cavortings were all for cover. The Federation’s “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policy doesn’t cover Starship Captains — or first officers — openly out of the transporter. What was it Spock said to Kirk on the point of death? “You are, and always have been, my special friend.”
Deckard/Rachael/Pris (Blade Runner)
I know what you’re thinking: he’s artificially manufacturing a triangle which did not exist in the movie — for comic effect! But you’re wrong. When Deckard (Harrison Ford) meets up with Pris (Daryl Hannah), the sparks fly right from the get-go. So she beats the crap out of him. So what? Is it so wrong for a woman to be assertive? She’s a replicant. She was programmed to be assertive. Do you get it, yet? Kicking Deckard in the nads is the only way she has of showing her love.
The only reason she keeps on clobbering him is that Deckard is too dense to figure things out. Remember when she jumps him and rides him piggy-back? I’ll bet you thought she wanted to break his neck between her creamy thighs. But, actually, all she wanted was for him to turn around. Stupid human.
As for Rachael: egads, how boring. I’ll bet she cries after sex. I’ll bet she cries during sex.
Luke/Han Solo/Princess Leia Organa
I know Leia and Luke are twin siblings, but anyone who has seen Joe Dirt can tell you this just heightens the sexual tension. Twincest is hot these days. So toss that objection right out the X-wing window, ‘kay?
It makes more sense to worry about the Luke/Han Solo dynamic, particularly given the fact that Chewbacca is willing to couple with anything that growls. (Wookies as a rule are orally obsessed; they don’t call him Chewie for nothing. Watch those incisors!) But let’s assume for the sake of argument that carnal hijinks aboard the Millennium Falcon were of the sort manly men get up to when there are no available vaginas. You know, the same sort of thing T. E. Lawrence got up to with those swarthy Arabian boys.
After all, we’re talking love triangles here, not circle jerks.
That said, I’d have to side with Han-Leia, just as Lucas did. In 1977, Harrison Ford was a hottie, and Leia would qualify for that adjective, too, if only she’d unleash her hair from those sadistic buns. Luke had all the sex appeal of a human Jar Jar Binks. And besides, his true attentions were elsewhere.
I can see it now, a la Joe Dirt:
“Luke, I am your father.”
“Say it again!”
“I’m your father.”
“Say it!”
“I’m your father. I’m your father.”
Oh, yeah.
D.
The place to be
Humans are meme* sponges, and none are spongier than children. In first grade, I got infected by the fame meme. I vanted to be a star.
If only Cintra Wilson had been a playmate on my street; she might have inoculated me against the fame virus. As it was, I fell under Hollywood’s spell. I saw a want ad in the TV guide for child actors and I bit.
When I was four or five, I spontaneously broke into song at our local pizza parlor, where they had a real live piano man. I belted out “Home on the Range”; I was the original karaoke maven. (My wife would call it budding exhibitionism, and she’d be right. Hmm. Exhibitionism. Isn’t that what blogging is all about?) Bottom line, I loved having an audience.
As I recall, I got a job from my first casting call, a major role in James Whitmore’s upcoming TV series, My Friend Tony (January to September, 1969). If you follow that link, you’ll learn the following:
When he was in Italy shortly after the end of World War II, John Woodruff was almost pick-pocketed by a very young street hood named Tony. Years later, a fully grown Tony arrived in America to join John as half of a private-investigation team.
I was that very young street hood! See? I’ll bet you always wondered where you’d seen me before.
I only had to do one thing for this role: pick James Whitmore’s pocket. I recall that Whitmore was a royal creep who couldn’t be bothered to learn my name (I was ‘the kid’). I also recall that in the story boards for my scene, everything appeared in silhouette. I figured the drawings had to be in silhouette because the director hadn’t met me yet and didn’t know what I looked like.
When the show finally aired, the whole family watched it. There I was in the opening credits — where I would be week after week for the show’s whole run — a tiny silhouette in the uppermost fifth of the screen trying to pickpocket a slightly larger silhouette.
Fame. But it got better. Before long, I would find myself sitting nearly naked in Eva Gabor’s lap.
You know, I’ve always wondered why I can’t ever manage to catch MY episode of Green Acres on television. The answer is easy: six seasons, 170 episodes. As best I can tell, mine is episode 145, “The City Kids”.
Here’s my Green Acres insider FAQ. Since the kids at school only ever asked me two questions, this will be short.
Q: Did you meet Arnold the Pig?
A: No, I did not get to meet Mr. the Pig.
Q: So I bet you think you’re pretty cool, huh?
A: Well, yes, actually —
Q: Dontcha, punk, ya little shit —
A: Okay, the Q&A is over now . . .
For Green Acres, my role required that I run around the Douglases’ living room with a giant candle holder and get myself stuck up the Douglases’ chimney. (Is there something oddly phallic about that, or is it just me?) Once I’m stuck up the chimney, the other kids tug on my legs to pull me out, and they pull off my pants by accident. When they finally get me out, my face is all smudged with soot.
Hmm. Are you laughing yet?
After the director got himself a satisfying take, I ran off the set. My main thought was to get my pants back, but Eva Gabor intercepted me, plopped me on her lap, cooed madly at me, and tried to wipe my face clean.
My mother was no help at all. She was so ecstatic to find me giving Eva Gabor a lap dance that she hung about, basking in Eva’s starlight, gushing how much she loved her in Gigi.
I’d really, really like to say I grabbed myself a bit of stellar action, a fistful of Hooterville Hooters, as it were, but sadly, I was embarrassed as hell sitting half-naked in some strange woman’s lap. Yet another example of me passing up an opportunity to score.
So: did I go on to become the youngest Brady? Did I get to play Eddie’s father’s son, or the littlest Munster? No, although I could have become a model for the star of MTV’s The Head:
Yup, I became a nine-year-old creep, a genuine prick. Couldn’t understand why the other kids weren’t as impressed with me as I was.
I may be misremembering this, but I think the camel-back-breaking straw came the day our teacher announced that a boy in one of the other first grade classes had died in a dune buggy accident. I waved my hand, and when the teacher pointed to me, I said, “Well, at least he’ll get his name in the newspaper.”
Based on that, my parents decided that this fame thing had gone a bit too far. That was the end of my acting career, except for my starring role in our first grade class’s production of Chicken Little.
Weird thing is, I never really missed it.
D.
*”Memes are the basic building blocks of our minds and culture, in the same way that genes are the basic building blocks of biological life.” – from Meme Central.
Better definition: memes are infectious thoughts or ideas. “Blueberries are blue” is not a meme. “M-m-m-my-Sharona” is (if you hum it and get other folks to hum it, too). Courage is not a meme, but a code of chivalry is. Religion is the Typhoid Mary of memes.
P.S.: Bare Rump is back. I thought about having her meet up with Seymore Butts on his casting couch (what — you don’t think Seymore would be interested in a hot new actress named Bare Rump?) but Karen says Bare Rump has too much integrity to appear in a porno. Ergo, Bare Rump’s Diary remains PG-13 (weeeell, occasionally R) for the time being.
I got me a guest map.
Why? Because it’s cool. Does there need to be another reason?
Go ahead, put yourself on the map. You know you want to. And while you’re at it, scroll down this blog to the Bloghop gizmo and give me a NICE, BIG, FAT, GREEN smiley face*. Put me back on the top-ranked page with that hunky Xavier — I know you can do it!
My ego thanks you.
D.
*Assuming you haven’t already voted, of course.
Whussup?
I’m still a bit under the weather (note to self: bad idea to blow off blood pressure meds for a week), so here’s a quickie. What’s up with all my links?
Over at Ishbadiddle, there’s a link debunking the Christopher Walken presidency bid. Bunch of kill joys; next thing you know, they’ll be saying that the John Cusack for President campaign is phony, too.
More political commentary: Jeff Huber updates us (More Dubya Talk) on the latest Rovewellian Newspeak, and Jurassic Pork contemplates the future of the Red vs. Blue fracas in Crawford, Texas (“So we have in the red corner . . . trailer park white trash whose wives and kids go to the same pediatrician” — hee hee). At HuffPost, Cindy Sheehan responds to the latest right wing smears and reports on the right’s cross-and-flag desecration yesterday.
What are my new romance buddies up to? The Bitches and friends are having an interesting discussion on how to sustain unresolved sexual tension in a novel. (I solved it thus: my giant spider, Bare Rump, keeps kicking the shit out of my giant fly, Argh, in order to save his life. At one point, Argh tries to repay the favor. He clobbers Bare Rump on the head with a heavy stone, hoping to knock her out so he can climb on top of her to protect her from flying vermin. Bare Rump’s response: “Ow.” Guess ya had to be there.)
My future harem queen Kate Rothwell is having a vagina monologue over at her blog, and Beth has been holding forth on scones, phones, and answering machines. My exceptionally tall pal Debi wonders which words drive traffic to your blog. Guess what, Deb: tantric sex doesn’t do it. And Maureen, where the heck on your blog is your tantric sex reference? Oh, great, that’s three tantric sex references in one paragraph! Anyway, Maureen, I added myself to your cool world map. Where can I get one?
Elsewhere, my favorite dominatrix Gabriele is having a bad hair day, and Demented Michelle proves yet again that she’s one of my psychic twins by blogging on Dunkin Donuts on the very day I went off my diet with (cue Outer Limits theremin music) DONUTS!
In case you’re wondering if I only hang out with girls, Pat is cooking beef stew while listening to Rob Zombie, and Wenlock is haunting the moors.
Last but not least, Paperback Writer is back in business!
I’ve undoubtedly overlooked a number of you. Feel free to promote yourselves shamelessly in the comments.
Tomorrow, if I’m up to it: my dark history as a child actor.
D.
Lester’s Tantric Sex Guide for Teens
“Oh,” I said. “I see.”
Anyway, since my sexual history is rather more cosmopolitan than his, I happily agreed.
“. . . when MTV surveyed 14- to 25-year-olds to find out what subjects they’d like to learn about most, tantric sex topped the list.”
— From tantra.com
Teenagers often say to me, “I don’t understand Dr. Doug’s success. How is it that a 3′ 6″ hobbit like him has women vying to have his hairy hobbity babies?”
“It’s simple,” I say. “In high school, he mastered the subtle secrets of tantric sex. Women sense this about him. They know he can bring them to the cusp of sexual enlightenment and beyond.”
“But, Mr. Wormfriend. I’ve read that tantric sex requires many long hours of meditation, ritual dance, and tandem breathing exercises. How can I get my boyfriend to do any of that, when he spends less than five minutes talking to me?”
“Oh, ho, ho,” I laughed heartily. “You may not realize it, Tiffini, but you and your boyfriend are already skilled practitioners of tantra.”
“We are?” she squealed.
“Sure. Think about it. The essence of tantra is that you stimulate one another, sometimes for hours on end, without ever reaching climax. You’ve done that, haven’t you?”
“Well, necking in Otis’s Ford pick-up, but . . . ”
“See? And after a while, don’t you feel a certain tension rising up your spine towards your head?”
“No. Mostly I feel sore as hell from Otis mashing my boobs like he was juicing lemons.”
“How about Otis? Doesn’t he feel a certain tension rising –”
“Well, duh. He keeps rubbing it against my leg all night long, and then he bitches about how much he’s hurting, and how he needs relief.”
“And there you have it. Tantric enlightenment, the culmination of hours of less-than-satisfying stimulation.”
“Um . . . Mr. Wormfriend? That’s not enlightenment. Otis calls it blue balls.”
“Blue balls, stone ache — enlightenment by any other name.”
“Gee. I never really looked at it that way.” She looked thoughtful for a long moment, then sighed. “Thanks, Mr. Wormfriend. I think.”
“And remember, Tiffini. The essence of tantra is that you prolong the stimulation indefinitely. The best way to do that is to keep your clothes on. Many, many layers of clothes.”
L.W.
Dad’s Eightieth
My father’s eightieth birthday is tomorrow. I can’t go to Vegas to help him celebrate because
- any temperature over 75F feels unbearably hot to me,
- my patients threaten me if I use any syllables in the word ‘vacation’, and
- have I mentioned recently how far overbudget we are on our remodel?
So, instead, I offer this short bio of my dad’s formative years. (Don’t worry. He got a card and a gift certificate, and he’ll get a phone call, too.)
He was born in Boston, at the west end of Bowdoin Square near Scollay Square. Here’s an image of a post card showing Scollay Square circa 1900:
I really wanted to scan in some photos from my album, but Karen’s had a devil of a time getting either of our scanners to work. Just as well; my dad has seen all of those photos anyway. Maybe he’ll have more fun with these.
His father was a grocer — one of those small stores that predated chain supermarkets (predated, but not by much, as you’ll soon hear). Little Arthur waited on his first customer at age 3. Probably sold someone a pack of playing cards, if I know my dad.
His pop’s name was Hyman, which (if I remember correctly) was Ellis Island’s way of spelling Chaim. Hyman moved around a lot in those days. By the mid-30s, he’d moved the grocery store to Roxbury, across the street from the synagogue.
I found this while surfing for “Roxbury” images. It’s a picture of Boston Latin School. Recognize this one, Mom? My dad went to Roxbury Memorial High, but I couldn’t find any pictures of Roxbury High.
Back to Hyman and his war with the rabbi. He kept his store open on Saturdays (for you heathens, that’s the Jewish sabbath) and his clients were, you guessed it, primarily other Orthodox Jews from the neighborhood . . . thus proving that my issues with organized religion go back at least two generations. Hyman must have thought this all great fun; in the late 30s, he moved to Dorchester, right across from another synagogue.
You understand, I’m winging it. Maybe this was the synagogue Hyman locked horns with; maybe not. Maybe my father had his Bar Mitzvah here. A life, reconstructed through Google Images.
By the late 30s, the big supermarket chains moved into town, grinding small businessmen like my grandfather into the dust. Damn you, A&P! Hyman moved on and became a soda pop wholesaler. Meanwhile, the now not-so-little Arthur found work as a supermarket stock boy and mechanic’s helper.
He was a big kid so he hung out with older boys. When Hitler invaded Poland in 1939, many of his friends went to Canada to fight with the British. Arthur was still too young (14). Come 1941, he’d graduated high school and moved on to Iowa State.
I imagine he had a blast that year. Not only was he big; he looked more mature than others his age. His older friends got carded at the bars, but not him. Hyman had taught him well, so Arthur also scored big playing pinochle with these suckers. They were his financial aid plan.
If you try, you can guess the rest. When America got into WWII, my father’s friends enlisted, and he followed suit. No one bothered to ask him for proof of his age. Two blinks later he found himself in boot camp in Fort Benning, Georgia.
He managed to hit many of the high points (low points?) of the European theater of action: first in Africa, at Kasserine Pass,
then the Allied Invasion of Sicily (that’s my dad in the helmet*),
and the D-Day invasion at Omaha Beach,
In Aachen, some German soldier got in a lucky shot and clipped my dad in the knee. That gave him some primo rehab time in a Paris hospital, where they pumped him full of toxic levels of penicillin and buffed him into shape in time for the Battle of the Bulge,
Woops! This Battle of the Bulge:
The Army kept Arthur around for the German occupation, too, and discharged him in January 1946.
One of my dad’s favorite war stories was the time a shell dropped into the foxhole right next to him and blew him clean out of the hole. He sustained no injuries (save for some noise-induced hearing loss. Sorry, had to work that in — occupational hazard), but the shell killed a friend of his who had been a great deal farther from the blast.
This, and doubtless countless other experiences like it, turned him into a Calvinist Jew. Well, he’s not much of either, but he does seem to have a belief in predestination. Something must happen to you when you see all your friends dying around you day after day, month after month. Survive that, and the rest of your life must seem like a gift. Gravy. Frosting. Borrowed time. One of those must surely fit the bill.
My dad’s other war stories tend to fit one of two patterns:
1. Green lieutenant arrives. He’s too arrogant (and/or stupid) to listen to the voice of experience, and promptly does his best to get himself and the rest of the guys killed.
2. They try to promote my dad, but he won’t put up with the brass’s BS and always manages to get busted down to sergeant again.
He got back to the States and found himself in the “52-20” club: all vets received an unemployment wage of $20 a month for 52 weeks. By June of ’46, he was doubtlessly bored silly, and went back to school at Iowa State. He took a degree in statistics. Later, he married my mom in January of ’48, and they moved to California shortly after he graduated.
He worked in banks for a while. Eventually, he became a high school math teacher, and kept that up for MANY years. I suspect his students had the same impression of him as I did, growing up.
(In case you can’t read the upper bubble, it says: “Did you clean your room???”)
I’ll save early memories of my dad to a later birthday. Did I leave much out, Daddy?
Anyway . . .
D.
*Just kidding. That’s Patton!
Walken in 2008
Yippee! It’s more than a Technorati rumor. It’s true: Christopher Walken will run for president in 2008. Let’s examine his credentials, shall we?
But first, some background on how America chooses its leaders. Ronald Reagan rose to the highest post in the land thanks to the fact he looked so good playing opposite a chimp. Arnold Schwarzenegger did about as good as a non-native born citizen can do because he showed his naked tush in Terminator. Fred Grandy played Gopher on the Love Boat. How can you not vote for a guy named Gopher? Sonny Bono used to be married to Cher. How can you not vote for a guy bright enough to divorce Cher?
The list goes on and on. Fred Thompson parlayed a Hollywood acting career into a Senate seat. He then parlayed an acting career in the Senate into an even bigger role, D.A. on monster hit Law and Order. Next pole vault, the Oval Office, but Fred hasn’t announced yet.
Don’t forget Sheila Kuehl (from Dobie Gillis) and Clint Eastwood (who debuted as the uncredited ‘lab assistant’ in the 1955 chick flick, Revenge of the Creature). And don’t ignore Bill Clinton, best known as the Cigar Smoker in Devil in a Blue Dress, and Dubya, who is such a fine actor no one seems to realize he isn’t a Texan.
Back to Christopher Walken. I love this guy. I really do. And I’m not being sarcastic, either. Wherever and whenever he shows up, he’s riveting. He played Diane Keaton’s suicidal brother in Annie Hall, and a nut job in Deer Hunter. See? Already, he has a more credible military record than Dubya.
My all time favorite Christopher Walken role: not Max Shreck in Batman Returns, but the Angel Gabriel in The Prophecy and its sequels. If you haven’t seen this movie, see it. The Prophecy has a screenplay to die for. Two great quotes, which I’ve borrowed from IMDB:
I’m an angel. I kill newborns while their mamas watch. I turn cities into salt. And occasionally, when I feel like it, I tear little girls apart. And from now till kingdom come… the only thing you can count on… in your existence… is never understanding why.
Catherine: Go to Hell!
Gabriel: Heaven. Only Heaven. At least get the zip code right.
Catherine: It’s all the same to you, isn’t it?
Gabriel: No. In Heaven, we believe in love.
Catherine: What do you love, Gabriel?
Gabriel: Cracking your skull.
And if that exchange doesn’t get your vote, nothing will.Disclaimer: over at the Huffington Post, they’re still trying to figure out if this is a hoax.
D.
Here’s a snippet for you
I’ve been working on Chapter 23 today, which is roughly halfway through the novel. I had thought this chapter would be ripe for paring (and at 300,000 words, one could argue this novel needs paring). Now that I’m rereading it, I’m loving it more than ever.
Bear in mind that I wrote a novel that I would enjoy reading. That has always been my first goal. So if I gush over my own work, you’ll understand why.
Here’s that snippet. Sul, my female protagonist, is taking an elevator to see my eeevil villainess, Madame Isen (think Tammy Faye Bakker crossed with Laura Bush). That’s all you need to know.
The left and right elevator walls were adorned with Church posters. Sul recognized one from last year’s Supra-Tithe Pledge Drive. Holding hands, Madame Isen and the Arch-pastor sat together on a marble bench in the green promenade fronting the Timbrel Cathedral. They leaned in towards one another, beaming at the camera. In flowing script, set against a blue sky, were the words,
You are one of Ki-Ni’s nest, and our nest, too!
Your “love offerings†make it possible
to broadcast Ki-Ni’s glorious message to the world!
We love you more than you can know!
Thank you for everything!!The other poster featured Madame Isen seated at her desk, the Arch-pastor standing behind her. His talons rested lightly on her shoulders. She wore a gold tiara and a flowing white gown; he wore his traditional black three-piece suit. This poster wasn’t familiar, and when Sul read the caption, she understood why.
Thanks to the miracle of “singularities†and Benevolent
Satellite technology, we can spread the love of Ki-Ni
throughout the Galaxy faster than the speed of light!
But we can’t do it without your help!
Send us your “love offerings†today!!Well, thought Sul, the Church certainly seems confident in the negotiations’ outcome. She remembered the Arch-pastor’s announcement at the prayer breakfast. Their very own Satellite station . . . nonstop Kinist evangelism for the Silk Road’s many hungry ears and other sensory appendages. Was that what this was all about? But the Satellite station would be free, and heaven knew the Church already had a firm handle on the business of network television. Why would they use the station as a ploy for more donations?
Why wouldn’t they?
D.
Sex, but not the good kind
I woke up with a headache this morning, then made it worse by working on my NiP for four hours. I’m deep in editing hell (fixing plot holes, setting up deus so they ain’t ex machina in the last fifty pages, that sort of thing). Fortunately, the manuscript will, by tomorrow afternoon, be up to snuff.
No, that does not mean I’m sending it out. It means I’m willing to print it out so I can begin my hard copy edit. Yippee!
Bottom line, I had serious literary brain freeze a moment ago trying to come up with a topic for today’s blog. My best idea was to take the top ten search topics at Technorati and use them in my own version of the Aristrocrats Joke*. The trouble with that idea is (1) I really don’t want to exploit Cindy Sheehan, and (2) the Aristrocrats Joke is filthy enough that I would surely alienate half my readership or more. (I think I’d be down to Maureen and Gabriele ;o)
Instead, I asked Karen, “What old story of mine haven’t I told yet?”
Without one second’s pause: “Male pelvic exams in medical school.”
God I love her.
Rummy Exaggerating
If you’re in the mood for edification, Karen will soon be posting the first installment of her capsule history of Afghanistan.
Has everyone left who is going to leave? Good. I’m assuming the rest of you want to hear about the teaching of male pelvic exams to naive medical students.
First, let me assure you that we did not practice on one another. Heavens, no. We’d never be able to look at each other afterwards. Homophobia is rampant among male medical students, as my tale of Fred has previously demonstrated.
Instead, the school enlisted the assistance of a corps of seasoned men, doubtless gathered by trolling Polk Street with a bullhorn. Heterosexuals do not volunteer for this job. Undoubtedly, this boosted the anxiety of Fred and a few of my other friends, but they sucked it up (so to speak). Like other medical students, they well understood the meaning of the phrase “requirement for graduation.”
We divided up into mixed-sex groups of four and met privately with our volunteers in small classrooms. One by one, we pulled on our gloves and practiced palpating our volunteer’s penis and testicles. (“That’s my epididymis. That’s normal. If you feel any other bumps down there, that would be bad.”) We each finished our round-the-world journey with a visit to Mr. Prostate. Our volunteer was great; Fred Rogers was never this patient.
Afterwards, we compared notes. Fierce howling and gnashing of teeth from Fred’s group told me that something special had happened there. I approached and heard the story retold for everyone’s benefit.
“He . . .”
“Yes?”
“He . . .”
“Go on!”
“He said . . . he said, ‘Oh, my. Look at that. I have a little drip.'”
Yes, we all recovered from the trauma.
D.
*If you simply must here a version of this joke, follow the link, and download the South Park version. As I understand it, this is one of the least offensive versions of the joke, but you will still be offended. You’ve been warned.