"George Kansan Noory Klum" wrote in message
. com...
"Radio Free Ungatz" wrote in message
...
Wayne Green will be the Special Guest LIVE
on tonight's Coast to Coast AM with George
Noorey.
Mr. Ungatz,
Who's Wayne Green and what's a George Noorey?
"Wayne Green" is what you do when you have to
go to the ER at 9 PM and wait in line 2 hours in
a chair to be seen by Dr. WhatsaMatter Fo Uinstien....
"George Noorey" is the nic for George the X-Ray
Tech who blasts you with the rads from the Crooke's
Tube at 120Kv from behind a lead screen. (..rey-ray...get it?)
(Being a paid EMT myself I can appreciate the story that
follows, lifted from my other favorite Ng of alt .tasteless
Medical humor is always entertaining. Enjoy the read
while waiting 4 tonight's show. Wayne G zbtw is a rather
amusing...if not eccentric guest. A good listen as I get to
run night duty crew as I type this evening)
--------------
Nomination: AT Real Life - "Screaming Nutsack Agony" by Coinneach
Fitzpatrick
Firstly, I must apologize for one thing. I did not receive the
original post by Coinneach Fitzpatrick on my news server, and Google
did not archive it. I did however save the post made by a nameless
retard who whose to quote the entire article and add one line of
(stupid) text at the end. That has been edited out. It's the only way
I would have seen the article at all.
Posted by Coinneach Fitzpatrick Saturday, October 25
Message-ID:
Date: Sat, 25 Oct 2003 05:56:34 GMT
Lines: 183
From: "retard"
Newsgroups: alt.tasteless
Subject: Screaming nutsack agony - long and pointless
wrote in message
... For the edification
of all, a description of my recent experience with epididymitis.
First, the background. I was working at an indescribably horrible,
stressful job, made worse by the fact that boss gave not one steaming
****e about the customers. Or his employees' health, as it turned out.
The choad came in to work with some contagious disease, despite the
fact that he's (1) salaried and (b) insured, whereas the rest of us
were neither.
Of course, stress weakens one's immune response, and I'd been more
stressed than ever before due to the ****ty pay, hours, and working
conditions. So, when I started ****ing laser beams 2 days later, I
wasn't exactly surprised. Unable to afford a doc, I took refuge in
cranberry juice. It helped, briefly, but the infection recurred. And
recurred again. And again. And again.
Then it got ambitious. In the meantime, I had quit my job.
Early in the morning of 6 October, I woke up in a cold sweat, with the
feeling that things were not as they should be down in my dangly bits.
I gently prodded about, and encountered my left testicle, which
instantly and savagely attacked my central nervous system.
15 minutes later, I managed to uncurl from the defensive fetal posture
enough to turn on the bedside lamp. The swimmer factory had ballooned
to 4 times its normal size (that is, twice as long, twice as thick),
and was rock hard.
Now, about the pain: imagine having your sack ripped open with a
carrot peeler, stuffed to the bursting point with white-hot coals,
stapled back together, then thwacked with a sledgehammer. Feel free to
shudder and cringe as you see fit. Or jerk off in ecstacy. Whichever.
The next 5 days are still sort of blurry. All I can really remember is
endless repetitions of cranberry juice, hot baths, and ice packs, with
occasional crawls to the toilet for more frickin' laser beams shooting
out of my frickin' penis, along with shreds of matter about which I
don't want to ponder too deeply.
Finally, the morning of the 11th, things came to a head (PDI). Stagger
to the bathroom with a painfully full bladder, gingerly drop my
briefs, aim, and...
*squirt*
Not good.
I don't have a car, just a motorcycle. The very thought of climbing on
the beast made me all twitchy and sweaty; ****, I couldn't even walk
without grinding my teeth. So, it came down to a choice between going
out back with the shotgun, or calling the medics. Not trusting my aim,
and having other obligations, I made the call.
10 minutes later, the first crew arrived. I had managed to put on a
pair of swim trunks and a t-shirt, and flip-flops. Add to this the
fact that I hadn't shaved in nearly a week. Must've been an amusing
sight. The medics wired me up, stuck an IV in me (my first ever,
weeee!), and asked exactly what was going on. When I described the
symptoms, the chief shook his head and said, "Man, you don't want to
wait on something like that. You gotta look after the boys!" We talked
about the possibility of torsion, and decided that I needed to go to
hospital RFN. (right f-n now)
Side note: ambulances do not have cushy, comfy rides. I felt every
crack in the pavement. The EMTs, to their credit, did a good job once
we got to the Halls Of Screaming Torment, getting me up to 1st on
triage. "It's a guy thing," they told the triage nurse. Of course we
had arrived right at shift change, so things slowed down quite a bit.
I went through the paperwork bull****e, embarassedly explaining that I
was flat broke and had no insurance "Don't worry about that," they
said. Ha.
Whilst waiting to be poked and prodded, I wondered about the large
proportion of old creepers hanging about. I overheard the resident
discussing one's stroke symptoms, a few chest pains, and a few diff
breathers. And I wondered... why ****ing bother, when they'll be dead
within a year anyway?
Eventually, someone came to me with a cup and pointed me to the
bathroom. Sweet relief at last, I offloaded about a gallon of dark
brownish-orange urine. When I handed the cup to the tech, he did a
classic double-take and said, "Thanks, Mr Fitzpatrick, go have a seat
and we'll get some water to you."
That was the best water I've ever tasted. Being on the edge of
collapse due to dehydration may have had something to do with it.
Some hazy time later, a spectacularly hot transport chick came up and
wheeled me back to a bed. Of course, the first really fine woman I've
seen in this festering ****e-hole of a state (Arizona), and I'm
looking like a Skid Row reject...
Then the doc came by, introduced himself, apologized for the delay,
and asked for a quick visual. I showed, he blinked and nodded, and
said he'd be right back. Then the nurz strolled in and asked how the
pain rated. I said "If 1 is a mosquito bite, and 10 is grabbing a
butcher knife to cut the damn thing off, we're at about 8." She said
she'd get me a painkiller and anti-nausea med.
ObDefinitelyNotT: Dilaudid. Without a doubt, that is the best high
I've ever had. It wasn't a numb or detached feeling at all, which I
thought was strange, as it's a form of morphine. As the wondrous
elixir flowed up my arm and out from my chest, it was like every bit
of my body suddenly woke up, stretched, and said good morning. Then
the wave hit the affected area, and the pain just... went away. It
felt like a warm bath of anaesthetic oil over all the nerve endings.
Pure bliss. I asked the nurz if I could get a siz-pack of that to go.
She laughed and comfirmed my opinion. Good ****. Then came the
anti-nausea stuff. Very thoughtful, as one of the side effects of
testicular pain is nausea.
Then the doc came back, and said he wanted an ultrasound. I've seen
that done, and it looked very pressure-ific. I must have turned pale,
for he said they'd give me another dose of Dilaudid if I needed it
afterward.
I needed it afterward.
The ultrasound tech was a good guy, very understanding and patient,
but there's only so much he can do without pressing. Damn him, he kept
cracking jokes, which made me laugh, which made me hurt... oh well.
The blood flow was fine, so no torsion. At that point, I was actually
hoping the blasted thing was dead, so they would just take it out and
let me recover. No such luck.
More Dilaudid, a diagnosis of acute (no ****) epididymitis, and 2
prescriptions later, I was on my feet, 4 miles from home, with no
money, and no one to call for a pickup.
Did I mention the flip-flops?
That's how I got home. If not for the drugs, I never would have made
it.
So. 2 hours later, I staggered back into my house, grabbed the
checkbook, put on my sneakers, and staggered over to CVS, which by
some minor miracle is right next door. Picked up my prescriptions for
Levaquin and Vicodin, got home and put my entire Monty Python's Flying
Circus DVD set up on eBay to cover the check, and sacked out.
The Vicodin didn't do ****e for the pain, BTW. I'd used it before, to
good effect, but not this time.
1 week later, the infection was gone, but the swelling remains to this
day. It's gone down some, but riding the motosickle is still
uncomfortable. Advil takes care of that. According to everything I've
read, it could be *months* before it's back to normal. I oughta take a
pic and put it up on abpt.
Let this tale be a warning to ye gents: when something's amiss Down
There, FIX IT. Or suffer untold agony and embarrassment, if that's
your thing. Cheers, Coinneach Fitzpatrick
----------------------------------
ObT: I've been eating nothing but vindaloo curries lately, and
consequently ****ting napalm and farting mustard gas. My ass feels like
a White Sands test range, complete with little pools of glass and
chattering Geiger counters. With a lifetime to harden themselves
against this sort of pain, I'm surprised that the Indians haven't killed
us all. Once you get used to squirting live thermite out your bunghole,
I can't imagine that facing bullets is particularly daunting.
Cheers, Matt
"If you cook cranberries like applesauce they taste more like prunes than
rhubarb does." -- Groucho Marx
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