I’ve never been a fan of doctors. They cut you, jab you with needles and sooner or later bring you really fucking bad news. Doctors, seemingly able to smell the fear leaking from my pores, are always a bit unsettled by my decidedly manic presence in their examination room. Naturally, I wasn’t psyched when one evening, having just hosed myself down in my bi-yearly bathing ritual, complete with shaved donkey and a dead Jesuit, I found a lump. A big one.
Not a fun experience, especially considering it’s location. Ladies and gentleman, I had a large growth in my balls. That’s right, swimming around in there like a third testicle was this big fucking thing that I’d not noticed before and after the initial pride and excitement of thinking I’d been so manly as to grow more balls, I freaked the fuck out in true wing-nut, triple-ball fashion and started wondering if I was going take an extended appointment in that tanning salon called Hell a lot sooner than I’d previously thought.

It took a few days before I could get to a doctor, so to kill time I ran through various worst-case scenarios in my mind. Assuming I’m completely fucking headed straight to toast-land, I should probably bite the ball-gag and ride that bull straight into the fucking ground. How I should do this was a big question of my mind and I managed to come up with a few viable options:

1. Grab my gun and start shooting. When I run out of targets, find more. Get shot. Die.
2. Grab my gun and start shooting people I dislike. When I run out of targets, find people I have mild distaste for. Get shot. Die.
3. Get shot. Die
4. Do a King Kong. Grab the nearest blond starlet, climb the Empire State Building. Stand on top, bellowing and beating my chest. Get shot. Die.
5. Find Jesus. Turn my life around and spend my time righting all the wrongs I have done. As soon as people start believing me, start shooting them. Get shot. Die.

Of course, you must understand that I didn’t want to do any of this at all. Shit, I wanted to be free. I wanted to run naked with the bulls of Pamplona. How can I be Pope someday when I’m dead? Fuck that noise!

After a few tense days and almost entirely sleepless nights, I went to see my doctor. After giving me a full feel-up, he told me that I needed to report to a radiology clinic for an ultrasound to determine what this darling and potentially dooming thing was. To top off my day, he let me know that in addition to this mystery meat in my nether regions, he’d found another lump that needed checking out. At this point, i welcomed the addition. It sucks to be alone at trying times such as this and I was glad for the company. So, I booked yet another appointment and went home for another week of the waiting game.

I continued to play out my late-night, end-game scenarios, only now interspersing them with enlightening, if not deep and meaningful conversations with my testicles. A typical discourse went along something like this:

daveb: Fuck dude! How could this happen? What am I going to do? I’m not ready for this!

balls: DOOM! DOOM! DOOM! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

daveb: Stop it with the doom shit, you’ve been saying that all week. Seriously, why now? I’ve been so good! I quit drinking, smoking and I don’t do any drugs anymore. I stay out of trouble and for the most part, I live exactly the boring life I’m expected to live. Why this? Shouldn’t I get an award instead?

balls: By the power of Satan, you will die a slow and painful death, only to have your soul cast to the burning depths of Hell for an eternity of torment! DOOM! DOOM! DOOM!

daveb: Seriously, dude. I am under a fuckload of pressure, I WILL cut you off with a rusty hamster. Do not fuck with me. We’re supposed to be on the same side.

balls: Jesus! O-kay mister touchypants! I’m just blowing off a little steam. It hasn’t been easy for me either. I need you more than you need me. Don’t think I don’t realize this and don’t think I don’t see you eyeing those scissors every time you’re in the bathroom. It’s fucking insulting is what it is! We were a team, asshole!

daveb: Okay, okay. Just chill. I’m sorry if I’ve made you feel that way. I’d never leave you. I don’t want grow boobs and become a falsetto. I need you too. Here, hold my hand. We’ll get through this, bucko.

balls: *sniff* I…I love you daveb. Don’t ever let me go! Hold me! I feel so lost!

daveb: I love you too, you fuzzy little delinquent.

Finally, after what seemed like the longest week ever, my appointment at the radiology clinic arrived and after spending an hour tweaking in a waiting room, I was directed to a changing area, made to disrobe and clothe myself in one of those dignity-boistering smocks all hospitals make you wear. I was taken to room with table that I was instructed to lie upon. A cloth was wedged under my balls and I was directed to hold another over the top, creating a delightful frame for my nuts. Martha Stewart couldn’t have presented them better.

Performing my ultrasound was a middle-aged, gum-cracking woman with a heavy Jersey accent. She asked if I was comfortable and whipped out a squeeze bottle of goop and proceeded to apply a heavy layer of slime on my balls before probing them with the magic wand. I was a bit uncomfortable at this point.

I figured it might not hurt to make some small talk, so I asked her how these ultrasound machines worked.

“Dere jus’ like submarines do. Ya know, ta find otha ships. It cycles thirteen million times a second. I got no idea what dat means, but hey, it works fer me.”

I asked her how, if these things were putting out sound, what material did they have to hit to make them bounce back and provide an image. “Youse organs. Youse balls.”, she replied.

I asked her if I could see what was happening on the monitor. She turned it towards me on it’s swivel-base and proceeded to give me a tour of my balls. “Ya see dat dere, dat’s youse testicle. Dat thick line right dere, dats you’se skin.“, she said while cracking her gum as punctuation.

As I lay there, getting the executive tour of my nuts, I realized two things. First, I had now officially graduated to that exclusive club of rare and privilidged individuals that know what the inside of their balls look like. It’s an honor, believe me. The second was the realization that I was experiencing the same treatment a mother gets during her first ultrasound, only instead of “There’s the baby. You can just see his fingers starting to form and that fluttering thing right there is his heart beating.”, I was hearing, “Dis is da vas deferens and if ya look right dere, youse can see pokin’ out behind the testicle, the growth we’re checkin’ out.” Really fucking surreal.

After a full probing of my testicles, my presiding technician called in the specialist to check things out and offer her opinion. I now had two middle aged woman, clucking and ahh-ing over my nuts as I lay wearing a smock, framing my goopy balls for them. Never in my life did I ever picture myself in such a setting.

The specialist told me I did not have cancer, but in fact a large cyst comprised mainly of water, along with several calcified nodes. All completely harmless. I wasn’t going to end up dead or as a eunuch. I swabbed the slime off of me and went home relieved. Deez nuts are clean!

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