I’m kinda worried about flying to Orlando next week, like should I stuff my underwear full of Kleenex and risk strip-searches or keep a pack of Kleenex in my bag in case I start bleeding profusely and it runs down my leg.
I was streaming a video on my laptop for a few hours when I noticed my shorts were soaking wet. The sight thew me. I scanned the room for my drink. Had I been drinking? I did not remember drinking anything and did not see any evidence in the room. It made sense that I had been drinking, and in that case, the class simply sweated on my shorts, or I spilled it. But I did not feel inebriated that night.
An inspection in the bathroom revealed that I was soaked in blood. It is a shock to see that much of your own blood on your clothes, especially when there is no recollection of injury nor pain. Blood was nearly gushing out of me, onto the floor. I was caught up in a panic to know what heck was going on with my body.
The blood was pouring out of my scrotum. I had no clue how that happened. Using a massive wad of toilet paper, I applied direct pressure on my gizzards. A gang of cucarachas might have committed sedition and insurrection on my teste ball sac.
I pulled a red travel blanket out of my clothes drawer and used it to cover myself up. I figured it would wash well. I snuggled myself in bed and pulled up big G search on my phone. My self-Internet diagnosis is that I have Fordyce Angiokeratoma of the scrotum, which was caused by varicoceles (varicose veins). I suppose I am growing older.
My wife has insisted I see a doctor; however, no pills would solve my problem. I am not in any pain, so I do not need chemical management. I gather the only useful treatment for my condition is laser surgery. The doctor would zap my nads with mini lightsabers and cauterize my blood pours. This could be a good option if the bleeding continues, or gets worse, even.
I was in the supermarket today and it occurred to me that I could start spewing blood at any moment. I could blame the mess I made on the floor on a leaky pack of Beef steaks, then run to the bathroom and stuff my britches full of toilet paper packing.
But if I am forced to contend with a doctor, I am going to tell my wife the doctor prescribed a blowjob every eight hours. I presume she will not order one the young women who work in the farmacia. (Spanish for pharmacy).
I will report back once it is case-d close-d, as the great Inspector Clouseau used to say.
I'm publishing a "Dark Calendar" for Christmas this year. It's 166 pages. An Organizer with crosswords puzzles and stuff. If you want one send me your address. I will ship around beginning of December.