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July 6, 2002 okra and nutsack gumbo I'd been threatened with it before.  Many times.  but, until Tuesday, I had never felt sharp, cold steel on my testicles. Last month, I stopped by the office of my urologist, Dr. Karloff, to pick up the small royalty check I receive from having had my prostate on the cover of Gland Monthly. (see mind and body.)  In the waiting room, I spied a pamphlet on vasectomies.  The cover graphics hooked me:  a Fifties, retro look--like a "Dick and Jane" primer--but with a Negro urologist explaining the procedure to his Caucasian patient.  There are currently two African-American urologists in the United States;  in the 1950s, there were approximately none.  The doctor on the pamphlet cover held an anatomical drawing of a scrotum and seemed to be saying, "this here is yo nutsack."  When Dr. Karloff's nurse assured me that his patients are administered the pre-op tranquilizer, Versed (Midazolam HCl), I signed on.  It was time to prune my family tree anyway. I had to prepare the site for surgery by shaving my own privates.  This took me over an hour even with a Mach 3 Scrotal Blade and Edge "Twig 'n Berries" Shave Gel.  There are a lot of nooks and more than a few crannies down there.  When I emerged from the bathtub and looked at my shorn gonads, I almost wept.  Rather than create the lengthening illusion I'd hoped for, the shaving gave my jewels a pale, withered look--like a newborn white rat abandoned by its mother.  Thus shaved and shaken, I prepared for my post-surgical care. The pamphlet stated:  "Once you're home after surgery, stay off your feet . . . to lessen the chance of swelling.  An ice pack or bag of frozen peas can help keep the swelling down."  This intrigued me.  Which characteristic was crucial to recovery--the low temperature or the vegetable type?  I thought about it long and hard and decided against taking chances.  I purchased both frozen okra in a bag and a large can of English peas. The surgery was delightful.  I hate to admit this, but I'd hang my scrotum in a blender every day for the rest of my life just to get the Versed injections.  That is some righteous shit.  A friend drove me home only after prying me loose from a crusty old nurse who, before surgery, looked like Raymond Massey but, in my Versed-induced euphoria, looked exactly like Rebecca Romjin-Stamos. Once home, I got in bed, spread my legs, and placed the cafeteria-size can of English peas on my crotch.  This hurt.  A lot.  So I switched to the frozen okra and found relief.  Except for a gait reminiscent of Walter Brennan in The Real McCoys, I have recovered.  and tonight, I am having okra and nutsack gumbo for supper.

©  2002 by the beastmaster