BIRDS RINGTONES

As many of you know from my photostream and 365, last September I was diagnosed with a Brachial Cleft Cyst, a benign cyst the size of a baseball growing in my neck.

The time had come to have it removed. As usual, nothing in my life occurs in an ordinary fashion as you will see in the following tale:

I woke up from surgery in my hospital room to what I swear was the sound of whooping. Then, "Dude, are you awake?"

"Yeah," I said, blearily taking in our room and determining that the voice came from behind the curtain dividing our room.

"My nutsack is swollen up the size of a grapefruit, you gotta see this."

The voice, it turned out, belonged to Bob, my roommate, a 38 year old unemployed towtruck driver and body modification aficionado. Tats, piercings, the whole 9 yards. Bob is also a dyed-in-the-wool, card carrying, 100% redneck. Bob also cannot turn off his inner monologue.

I liked Bob immediately. I decided that fact when I was jolted from sleep by the ringtone for his phone, a recording of a woman enacting a dramatic and fake orgasm. I complemented Bob on his creativity.

"I heard yours while you was sleepin'" he said. "Star Trek or something. You ain't never gonna get laid in here 'less you change that."

By the time I had arrived, Bob had been in the hospital 6 days awaiting surgery on his abused and horribly infected penile implant.

That was the start of three days of satisfying and horribly dysfunctional male bonding. Within five hours of waking up from surgery Bob and I were hanging out, eating contraband sushi, drinking beer and comparing horrible ex-wife stories. And I learned more than I ever wanted to know about penis implants.

4 am Wednesday I'm again awakened by Bob phone having an orgasm. I looked across the room and found the curtain pulled back. Telltale green monitor lights were reflecting off Bob's nipple piercings. "Don't you feel a little weird when that goes off and your mom calls?"

"Dude, this IS my mom." His grin flashed in the semi-dark as he chatted with his ma.

Bob was also a naturally helpful guy. He gave me the rundown on what was where, the closest vending machines, where to find the exit nearest the convenience store for more beer and where to find better food. He also helpfully gave his opinions on which nurses I should "tap", often while they were in the room. At one point he crowed, "He's kind of a geek but I know he can please a woman like you!"

The next day in a moment of terrified confusion I was nearly wheeled out by Vince, the bald fembot orderly, to have Bob's penis surgery.

On Thursday while waiting to be discharged Bob's doctor came in and gave Bob and his mom the news about Bob's surgery. He told Bob that he had reached the limit of penile implant repair technology. The plain truth of the matter is that Bob is hard on his equipment and needs to make a change.

"No shaving your genitals, no cock rings, no penis pumps, no blow up dolls, no masturbation and no sex for 3 months," said the doctor.

Bob's depression swept the room like a tsunami. "But Doc, I like to keep it clean down there and I gotta crack my stick at least four times a day!" Bob's mom looked concerned.

"Bob, I suggest that if you want to keep that you learn a little self control."

"I told him," Bob's mom chimed in, "I said Robert, if you don't leave that thing alone it's gonna fall off. Now you done it!"

Then, to my horror, I hear her say, "Steve, how'm I gonna keep Bob from beatin' off?"

This was a first. "Bob," I asked, "Do you remember Smokey the Bear?"

"Yeah," said Bob and mom at the same time.

"Only you can prevent your cock from falling off!" I intoned in my best deep, growly voice.

Eventually, after much handshaking and hand sanitizer I was collected by Vince, the orderly, for discharge. Vince is a short, Asian fellow, shaved bald a cue ball, has a voice like by third grade math teacher and is flamboyantly gay.

As we were waiting on the curb for my ex to pick me up, Vince was all fidgety. I asked him what's up?

"Girlfriend,' he piped,"are you okay from here on out?"

I allowed that I was.

"Great, I gotta see a guy a bout a horse." Either Vince was gambler or I'm not up on my gay lingo.

As I rode home with the ex-harpy, a nasty 6 inch incision in my neck with pain and numbness gnawing away at me i was hit with a stunning realization.

There's a lot of shit that's horribly wrong with my life. But in looking back at the last 3 days, it's a life that's uniquely mine. I mean I could have got an old guy with feet problems as a roommate. Instead I got yet another experience that I will keep with me my whole life. Weird shit abounds around me and I absolutely love it.

I realized that I love my life. Now give me the fucking vicodin.

Girlfriends in The Grove