The Disturbing Part of My Conversation With Bill.
In my previous post, I detailed my first conversation with Bill, a coworker with one testicle. Bill described to me some lessons he learned one night while doing some work on his home.
Some of the things he learned were disturbing.
He related those disturbing things to me.
I was duly disturbed.
- Budweiser and power tools don’t mix.
- Nail guns are designed to drive a nail through wood or plaster.
- If the wood is on a concrete surface, the nail might ricochet.
- While a nail will ricochet off a concrete surface, it will easily penetrate a layer of denim and your scrotum.
- A nail in your testicle really hurts.
- A nail in your testicle will bleed a lot.
- It’s difficult to drive yourself to the hospital with a nail in your testicle.
- It’s difficult to walk with a nail in your testicle.
- It’s difficult to breathe with a nail in your testicle.
- It’s difficult to do virtually anything with a nail in your testicle.
- The exception being whimpering, whimpering is easy to do with a nail in your testicle.
- Did I mention that it really hurts?
- There was never a more appropriate use of the phrase, unfortunate ricochet.
This however, was not the most disturbing part of my conversation with Bill.
After the nail gun discussion, we navigated through several mundane topics of conversation, most of which had nothing to do with anybody’s testicles.
Eventually he began to tell me about his ex-girlfriend. He described to me how much he liked her. He described to me how much she liked him. He then told me that they were forced to break-up.
“How is it that you were forced to break-up?” I asked him.
“Well, it turned out that she’s kind of my sister,” he replied casually. Then he stood there silently. For the first time all night, he stood there silently. He had jabbered on about his guns, his dog, his truck, and his testicles. Correction: testicle.
“Explain,” I said impatiently.
“Explain what?” He replied innocently.
“Explain how she’s kind of your sister.”
“We have the same father.”
“That’s more than kind of, that’s pretty much the definition of what makes someone your sister.”
“Half-sister,” he corrected me. “She never knew who her real father was.”
“But you knew who your real father was?” I asked.
“Yeah, I was certain who my real father was,” he assured me.
“Were you certain because he had only one testicle?” I joked.
“No,” he said defensively, “I don’t think that’s how genetics work.”
“I know,” I told him, “it was just a joke.”
“He doesn’t even own a nail gun,” Bill persisted.
“Sorry. It was just a joke,” I reiterated.
“I don’t see why that’s supposed to be funny,” he demanded.
“Evidently it wasn’t,” I told him sheepishly.
He stared at me suspiciously for several moments before continuing. “It was really too bad we had to break-up, we had a lot in common.”
“Of course you had a lot in common,” I exclaimed, “DNA for starters. Please tell me you don’t have any children with too many fingers or an extra chromosome, because that is how genetics work.”
Then something horrible happened. Perhaps it was my fault for opening the door to the subject; he began to describe their sex life. And as graphically as he described the loss of his testicle, he was giving description of their sexual encounters.
“Stop it,” I yelled in a panic.
I don’t need the mental image of a man with one testicle, having sex with his sister. Correction: half-sister.
“I’d be more comfortable if we went back to talking about your testicles… Sorry, your testicle.” Just saying the words made me queasy.
No man should ever have to utter that phrase.