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Deal is Done

I just got the call from Joe Rogan who tells me it's now a done deal. We are the new hosts of The Man Show on Comedy Central. More when I get the details.


A scrotum is supposed to have wrinkles, right?

Mine does not anymore and I'm starting to worry. 12 days after the vasectomy my balls continue to grow like nuclear tomatoes.

Hard lumps have developed, one flucuates between the size of a large seeded red grape and a small egg and the other bigger than a peice of Double Bubble bubble gum.

My hypochondria wanes with drink and vicodin and then races back with a fury when getting a morning eye-load of the monstrosity that is my sack, ballooning like the fat kid from Willy Wonka.

They say to wait 72 hours and I'd love to meet the superhero who would want to jack off three days after this shit. It took me a week before I allowed myself to blow a load and then did so squinting like a girl at a scary movie, expecting blood and stitches to fly out of me.

Sure, I should go back to the doctor. But I'm on the road and I don't like doctors. Doctors started this shit. Probably sewed up a half dollar in there as a goof. I prefer to exhaust all the home remedies before I zip down to the man with the scalpel. Heating pads, ice packs, hot bath, chicken soup, tylenol, Jagermeister, hystrionic weeping, prayer, Celebrex, sensory deprivation, leeches, acupuncture, laying on of hands and/or feet, vicodin, voodoo, flotation tanks as well as fresh air and Gold Bond Medicated Powder. If none of these work, or if the seams of my sack start to tear from the pressure, then I'll see about going back to the good doctor.

In the meantime, I will continue to pull out my balls at the bar with timid cupped hands to horrify my friends and family.

The Hinden-Bag.

Whatever doesn't kill me makes me bitter.


My Balls


You never realize how many body parts attach to your balls until you have them surgically mutilated. I changed my mind 100 times in the hour before I left, even stopping the car on the way when reading parts of the pamphlet I’d been given.

“Infrequently, a patient may experience pain around the testicles up to 20 years after the vasectomy.”

20 years??? What exactly does “infrequently” mean? As a gambling man, I’d like some more specific odds making.

“Very rarely, a small blood vessel may enter the scrotum and form a clot. A small clot will probably dissolve over time but a large one can be painful and usually requires reopening of the scrotum for drainage. This procedure requires hospitalization and a general anesthetic”.

Still I managed to make myself show up.

The vasectomy itself, as they told me, wasn’t “painful” - in the sense that it didn’t hurt hurt. But it was certainly one of the most all-around uncomfortable experiences of my life, just in knowing what is happening and the anticipation of what it could and should feel like.

I could not feel much of anything save for the needle that delivered the local anesthetic and then just barely. Had I felt anything like it just walking down the street it would barely warrant a quick scratch but I wasn't on the street. I was splayed out in a doctors office with my prepped and disinfected lunch being cut open, pulled apart rewired and stitched up and I knew it.



So I laid back, ate Fritos, made some calls on my cell phone and made as many jokes as I could, all of which fell on deaf ears. I guess he’d heard em all.

After the shot, I don’t have the slightest idea what happened down there. I’d just look at Renee’s expressions of barf-bag horror and assume the worst. Ask any Wallenda and they’ll tell you - Just don’t look down.

I told him he could take some extra scrot-skin to make eyelids for burn victims.


Honey took some pics but the doc wasn’t brimming in his humor and we certainly didn’t want him to be shaky-handed.

Product Placement

I was about to call Rogan and have him talk me through it “Fear Factor” style but by the time I thought of it, it was done.

I was bid farewell and ran into the world like a hero. No bed rest for me. I felt just fine. Let’s go run some errands.

Shortly after leaving the Spy Store where I picked up gear for an upcoming project, I realized the reason I had felt so good.

Anesthetic, stupid.

Anesthetic wears off, stupid.

By the time I got home I was walking like I just rode a spastic, bony horse bareback in an all-day rodeo. And it just got worse as the day went. Like blue-balls with stitches and I hadn’t even thought to ask for pain-killers.




Scrot-skin eyelids

I took my last Xanax and drank a six pack. Sleep is the best pain-killer there is but I couldn't sleep. I couldn't do anything because, as I said, your balls are connected to everything. They are connected to your stomach muscles and your leg muscles and your lungs. You can't laugh or cough or yell and I prayed to Gods that I don't believe in against getting a boner.

Don’t sit up or sit down or push a piss. Just let it dribble

Today, the day after, I walk like an old man and it’s better - more of a mental thing than anything but not what any leper would call comfort.

They say to soak in a warm tub and I say eat a dick and give me Vicodin and they do. Honey’s going to pick up the scrip and I sat down to take my first shit since the knifing. Afraid to push my ugly lunch too far between my legs, I ended up pissing all over my sweatpants. Now I’m going to soak in a warm tub and think about what a great story this would be to tell my children one day.


Tampa Bay made my day but I got fucked on the wager, betting the under 44, so buy my CD or the DVD or simply send me 631 dollars via PayPal.

Dave Fulton and Henry Phillips made it down to the bar to watch the game, as well as a halftime appearance by Extreme Elvis who was in town to do a private party. He was in a kind mood and did not urinate on anyone.

Sign the mailing list. I'm considering doing a barnstorming run this summer and just crashing towns across the country, playing whatever bar has a stage. The more people I have from your town, the more likely I'll show up there. Spread the word. Pass the CD's and DVD around.


Half Time Show


Belize Cove

Belikin is about the only beer you can get in Belize, or at least in Ambergris Caye and although it’s not very good it’s nice to be able to simply order “beer” without any specifics. And Belikin grows on you.

The thing about Belikin is that the bottles are about 4 times as heavy as American beers, like the old Coke bottles so you continue bringing an empty one to your mouth thinking it’s near full.

We ordered rounds, several of them, fresh off the plane at the Sundrift Hotel where they have the “world famous” Chicken Drop every Wednesday. Becker had read about the Chicken Drop somewhere in Alaska before the trip so I guess that would validate the “world-famous” claim.

Before he explained what it entailed, I immediately assumed that chickens were dropped for some high altitude and you would applaud in Third-World frenzy as the splattered. After our trip last year to Costa Rica, Becker and I toyed with the idea of moving there and starting a pig-skeet farm, where we would raise pigs and then fire them into the air on catapults for tourists to blast with shotguns. Chicken Drop sounded like it might infringe on our master plan.


The Chicken Drop in actually far less brutal. Simply, a chicken is tossed onto a board of numbers - 1 thru 100 - and whoever has purchased the number that the chicken shits on first, wins.

Chicken Throw

We bought 20 tickets and we won. The chicken shit on number 22, my new lucky number, and we won 100 dollars Belize, or 50 bucks U.S.



Meanwhile, the boil-goiter on the back of my neck kept growing. Quit pickin it, says Honey.

It was raining when we arrived and when it stopped it still stayed gray. The major form of transportation, besides walking, is the over-priced rental golf cart. The roads are dirt but in the rain turn to a fine, clay-like mud that - as Becker put it - made the cart steer like a Ouija board.


We didn't have time to fuck around and wait for sun since we were only there for four days. There was tons of shit to do and we didn't want to do any of it, to be honest. We'd considered the baboon reserve or the cave tubing but they were full day affairs and pricey and we were all kind of keen on just drinking on the beach and watching our fat grow. But we'd come all this way so we settled on snorkeling in Shark Ray Alley.

They call it Shark Ray Alley because of the Sharks and Rays. They could have at least used Spanish in lieu of originality but it sold us so there you go.

They take you out to the reef and give you a rote speech with all the excitement of a senior telemarketer on his last day of work, sucking any imagined risk out of the proposition and then you jump in the water and swim around with these enormous rays and other marine life. Don’t get me wrong, it was still fun as fuck but it would have been really fun if the guide himself had acted like he was scared out of his tit.

But instead, he pleasantly loaded us back onto the boat, handed out water bottles to all of us like children who didn’t cry at the dentist. He started up the boat, hit the throttle and after a moment of seeing no progress, he realized that the propeller had fallen off and was now on the bottom of the sea.

Back at shore - courtesy of another boat in the area that still had it’s propeller - we were now ready to drink for three days and make excuses for doing little else.

Becker likes Belize.


We stayed at the perfect hotel on the beach called the Playador which probably translates into "nice place" or some such thing. Every Spanish name translates into something vague and simple like "warm water" or "big house". They never translate into "misplaced ambition" or "blood-caked offspring", nothing but the obvious.

Becker likes Belize more than I do but I like it just fine. I just don't feel like I'm "away" as much as I did in Costa Rica.

The dirty here is more of an American dirty as opposed to an undeveloped dirty. You walk down the beach and you see conch shell followed by plastic cup followed by hermit crabs and styrofoam plate. Not East River pollution by any means but each peice of refuse I spot, I can't help but imagine it was left there in a malicious, purposeful manner by some American tourist. A raging fraternity wrestler from Arizona State yelling with his friends about some fruitless date-rape attempt that he was too intoxicated to consumate as he pisses of the pier - dick in one hand while the other tosses garbage. I don't consider that sometimes plastic cups just get blown into the sea, nor do I want to.


It doesn't take long before you get your fill of slogans like "You'd Better Belize It!". Becker found a Hawaiin shirt that had You'd Better Belize It all over it and bought it just to irritate me.

So we drank and we skinny-dipped and we slept and we ate and we took pictures of the girls skinny-dipping and when they sobered up we claimed that we'd deleted those pictures and then we drank some more. It was still overcast when we caught the puddle-jumper back to Belize City to catch the flight home.

Airport security? The 12 seater plane back to Belize City was full when I got on so I got to ride in the co-pilot seat. Nice.

Getting off, we had to claim our bags inside. I couldn't find my claim tag and the luggage guy didn't seem to care that I was the only person of the 12 on board left trying to claim that the only bag left. He asked my name and then checked the permanent tag on the luggage. The name was not mine though - it was the name of whomever left it at the thrift store where I'd purchased it. Becker was laughing at me and I told the luggage policeman that my camera was in the top pocket and had pictures of me throughout. I began to scroll through as he looked over my shoulder and immediately hit the vein of skinny-dipping pictures of our naked wives.

The laugh made the whole vacation.

Upstairs in the airport bar, the entire staff was wearing the exact same "You'd Better Belize It!" shirt as Becker.