Urethra ranklin'
I was a bit of an early starter when it came to self-abuse. Not of the Opus Dei type, you understand, but... you know, down there. Whether or not this had anything to do with the kidney stone that got lodged in my urethra at an age where I still thought pink was a legitimate colour of the rainbow, I don’t know, but what I can tell you is, that hurt quite a bit. The artisans in my number one workshops had evidently crafted an ornate crystal object d’aaarrgh which was too spiky to piss out (I’ve always assumed it was a Skull of Doom), and over the course of the morning, my little soldier swelled up to look like Fatman from Metal Gear. Also not pleasant. Eventually I was whisked off to hospital for an emergency circumcision. Yay me! Off I went to the anaesthetist’s room, where I met a real live Australian! That was a good bit, I’d only seen them on telly before, although disappointingly everything about him was the right way up. Anyway, the next thing I knew, I woke up screaming. Fellas – imagine being bitten by a phosphorous ferret, who grinds its pyrophoric incisors right around your bell-end and won’t let go. Gentlewomen – same thing but ‘bean’ instead of ‘bell-end’. It was the crowning glory of this pain pageant – or rather, morning glory. I had cracked a stiffy in my sleep and popped the stitches in my special purpose. Parents, please take heed of this story and ensure your little ones are properly hydrated at all times. I would far rather have spent my childhood sealed in a milkchurn full of Lucozade Sport than have to go through that.
(electricteeth, Fri 30 Jul 2010, 15:48, Reply)