The Day My Wiener Died

Welp ole buddy it’s been a hot minute since I’ve taken the time to sit down and throw a little Billy Shakespeare down. Today I’m offering up a combo plate with a main course of oversharing with a side of WTF. Buckle up.

Age has been sneaking up on me bit by bit. What was once a salt and pepper beard is now leaning more towards Santa Claus with each passing day. If I eat bread my farts could clear a battlefield, if I eat sweets, I can actually hear myself getting fatter. I have the metabolism of a reptile in a snowstorm. I have laugh lines near my peepers, and when I first wake up in the morning my body crackles like an old Victorian home. I’m not saying I’m on the back 9 but I damn sure have vintage plates.

I think for most people middle age is when you start coming to terms with your own mortality. For me, I’ve thought about my own mortality my entire life. It’s just something that comes with the territory when you have anxiety. Now that I’m in my mid 40’s all the racing thoughts I’ve always had are now real and at times it’s hard to distinguish between what’s in my mind and what’s truly happening. It’s hard to explain if you’re normal, but if you know you know. The reason I bring this up, is recently I started working out again. Not for vanity, strength, or even mental clarity. I started working out so I can fish as long as possible.

Being the aspiring hermit that I am, I wasn’t going back to a gym. I get the same feeling in a crowded gym as I do a crowded boat ramp. You’d think I’d be inspired by all the people trying to improve themselves… I’m not. Even the smell annoys me. It’s like a cross between pit sweat, toe jam, axe body spray with a hint of some kind of doctor’s office antiseptic. Again, not my jam. I decided to start building a gym in my basement.

I started with an exercise bike. The super old school kind where you ride the bike but flail your arms back and forth at the same time. As soon as Leslie smiled when she looked at it I knew that was the first addition. I had one minor concern: the size of the seat in relation to the size of my ass, but it’s the same thing I have to tell myself whenever I’m trying to buy pants or sunglasses. The world isn’t made for walrus’s, have to make do with stuff built for normies.

I get my Jackie Gleason bike home and can’t wait to start shedding pounds and adding more fishing years one workout at a time. I hop on and get the front wheel/fan thing spinning right away. I was a minute or two in when I felt a little uncomfortable. I started adjusting the height and distance of the micro seat until it felt better. I start cooking for a couple more minutes when the bottom dropped out on me. I didn’t secure the seat height all the way and it gave way under the tree hundreds pounds of me. Immediately had my anxiety ramped up to ten thinking I keistered the damn seat. After standing up and walking around for a bit, including checking my turd cutter to see if I was tip top magoo, I got back up on the bike. You know the deal, you get knocked down, wipe the dirt off yourself and hop right back up!

As the adrenaline slowed alongside me catastrophizing, I started to relax a bit. The only down side now was the seat/ass coverage ratio. There just wasn’t enough surface area on that little seat to offer any comfort to my badonka donk. I’d go for a couple of minutes, then stand up to relieve a little pressure, but damn it, I was going to use this thing I purchased and get a workout in. I did. Had my thunders cranking that fan for 25 minutes solid after working the kinks out.

Then all hell breaks loose. I step off the bike, beaming with pride and accomplishment. I wanted to stop multiple times because I was pretty uncomfortable in my nether region but decided that was either anxiety or weakness talking and I had no time for it. After I had that thought my pride grew. I went to adjust my twig and berries when I realized my wiener was numb.

Panic doesn’t cover the sheer, world-ending horror that hit me. If I had those shocker paddles they carry in ambulances I would have screamed clear and shocked my little buddy back to life. Of all the things that could go wrong. I would rather lose an eye, finger, leg, arm, damn near anything but my wiener. Realizing how ridiculous this situation was I refrained from screaming for my wife at the top of my lungs. I sat down with zero feeling in my dong contemplating everything. I thought it was the amount of weight that must have crushed my pecker nerve that is located somewhere near my butthole. Clearly, I’m not a doctor, nor do I have basic anatomy understanding past what I can see. What I did know is now it’s been a few seconds and my dong is still dead.

My mind is racing much faster than my legs were going a few minutes ago. Damn it, I was down here trying to get more fishing time in my life, didn’t know I’d have to trade my wiener for it. I knew sooner or later something real would pop up I’d write off for anxiety and it would cost me. I had no idea the cost would be so tragic. From there I went to the darkest place imaginable. If I have no feeling, there’s no reason to have it anymore, might as well lop it off. I could handle being a hefty, grey-bearded dude with laugh lines. But not without my piece. It was unbearable and beyond embarrassing. I was in the basement of my house damn near in tears looking down at myself yelling at my wiener.

Then, like a foot that’s fallen asleep after a long dookie, I started feeling it again, bit by bit. The relief was so overwhelming I damn near passed out. Having a temporary dead dong reminded me of a simple truth I forget about far too often.

This too shall pass.