I nearly killed my Dad
Due to over-use wearing it out I had to have the old foreskin snipped off one week after my 30th birthday. (It wasn't cool timing either as I'd just started banging this filthy posh chick who was up for anything and six weeks out of the game did not go down well. But I digress...)

Now, when they kosher-up babies it's not a big deal as there isn't much to take off; it's a bit like sharpening a pencil. When you have a thirty year old wang to deal with however it's a little more complicated, so a general anaesthetic is required.

One condition of them doing the operation was that someone had to come and collect me and stay with me for the next 24 hours, just in case I had an adverse reaction to the anaesthetic. Seeing as I lived alone that was a problem. So, I bit the bullet and phoned my Dad to see if he could do it. My Dad was always quite cool about what many would describe as deeply personal things and often used to regale my brother and I with stories of how he "fucked his way round Spain" in the 60s.

At the time he was retired and had a lot of time on his hands, so he was happy to make the trip up to help out his number one son. He was, however, also in very poor health and had to avoid any stress and strain.

Fast forward to the day of the operation and I came round in the recovery room. As I wake up on the trolley dressed in one of those smock things which have your arse hanging out, Dad's sat there looking a touch uncomfortable but not too bad. One of the pre-conditions of them discharging you is that you have to be able to have a piss on your own. So, once I stop feeling woozy I hop off the trolley to go and use the toilet.

Now, while I had been laying down rather a lot of blood had collected in the gauze they had wrapped around my wounded John Thomas. As I stood up there was an almighty splash as half a pint of claret straight from my injured todger hit the floor. My Dad went absolutely grey and had an expression on his face that could only be described as that of someone who is horrified, sickened and paralysed with fear. I nearly finished the poor old bastard off! He wasn't the same for some time.

Length? Well, at the time the length didn't change but it swelled up to a good four inches in diameter for a few days
(give it six weeks and it might clear up would like to butter your muffin, Fri 13 Mar 2009, 10:12, 1 reply)

Fucking hell
I've just replied to the answer a couple above this, but this experience also happened to me (apart from it being my Dad.)
In fact, those cunty Drs had said "Blah blah, routine minor op, in and out same day, nothing serious blah blah" so I had taken them at their word and thought I'd have the afternoon off,no fuss, no need to tell anyone my personal business (like I'm telling the world now).

Some hope.

When the bloody dressing hit the floor and I followed it, I was in for 2 days, then spent a week shuffling round the house like Ozzy Osbourne just shat himself, wearing pyjama bottoms and moaning a lot, being looked after by Mum & Dad.

I might as well have put an ad in the paper, people were coming up to me for weeks asking if I was OK now.

It works just as well now though!
(Rsoles, Fri 13 Mar 2009, 12:54, closed)