Firing blanks since 2002. This is just nuts!

EDITOR’S NOTE: The following post was written in 2002 as an e-mail to a friend. Before reading it, there are a few things I should probably point out: 1) My friends are nothing like your friends. 2) This particular friend hails from rural Georgia, which is why I wrote it in a peculiar Deliverance style, and finally, 3) I’ve been writing weird crap since long before Roamin’ Gnomials was ever a twinkle in my eye. Enjoy!


Hey there!

Well, when I dint hear back from ye in seemingly forever, I went on home, seein’ as how I is the state editor this week and get to come in early and leave early. That is why I dint tell you no more about my nut-cuttin’, which occurred several years ago when you was in Portland and we wasn’t talkin’ so much as we does now.

So anyways, we was havin’ a particular bad stretch around here with kids givin’ us more shit than what we had a right to be havin’ and we (mostly me) determined that we dint want no more of ‘em come hell or high water. So bein’ the Rennersance man than I is, I decided that a nut-cuttin’ was what I must have.

First, I determined that the old HMO would cover sich as that on account of it costs less to cut nuts than it do to birth babies and put up with all that related truck, so the next step was to head on over to see Dr. Collini, the old Italian nut-cutter and prostate checker.

He groped me purdy good, and pronounced them as fine a set as he’d ever seen, and said they was ripe for cuttin’ and I could report to the hospital day surgery center at the crack of dawn in a couple of weeks. Nut-cuttin’ is best done at dawn’s early light, apparently.

So Mary droved me over there, and we checked in and I got my little arm bracelet, and I was feelin’ a little nervous about the bobbin’ what was comin’. We was sittin’ there in the waitin’ room and watchin’ a little TV or sumpin, I disrecollect what was on, when finally the nurse comed to fetch me to the cuttin’ suite.

Well, I went in there and the nurse said to shuck my jeans, which I done, and they suited me up in one o’ them hospital gown things what ain’t got no backside. I tooked my socks off, too, though they said I coulda left ‘em on, but I figured I’d look eben more ridiculous in that getup with blue dress socks, so I shucked ‘em, too.

They set up one o’ them drape things so, layin on my back as I was, I couldn’t see down to where the action would be. Collini entered the room, and I knowed it wouldn’t be long before I lost my manhood, but I reckoned this was no time to turn chickum, and all I had to focus on was the fact that I dint really want no more kids, and that was for damn sure.

So first thing he done was to “numb it up a little bit,” which was enough to practically send me into orbit. There was a nurse there who was holdin’ my hand, and I might have turned my head toward her and wept a little right then.

Next what Collini done was to tell me that he was about to commence with the nut-cuttin’, and that I might feel “some tugging.” Well I’d tugged on it plenty over the years, so I figgered I could take that, and sure enough, I felt some tuggin’ all right. You know how it is when yer eatin’ a can of Franco — the oldtime long noodles, not the spaghetti-o’s — and ye have one spaghetti noodle and you kinda can suck it up into yer mouth? Well that’s kinda what it felt like, like I was havin’ a spaghetti noodle sucked outa my gonads.

220px-20091014_001914_francoamericanspaghettiWell the whole time whilst he was suckin’ noodles and dicin’ me up down there, he was tellin’ me what he was doin. He said he had to pull these vas bastards out of the sack and chop ‘em, then put a little BB-like clamp on ‘em and then stuff ‘em back in there on diffurnt levels (whatever that means) so they couldn’t grow back together nohow.

Well, I figgered things was goin’ ok, and indeed not much yet had happened what wasn’t in the little brochure that he’d gib me on my first visit, so I was startin’ to calm down a little, when I looked down toward the drape and damned if I dint see smoke risin’. It was at this point that I hollered out, “Oh hell, doc, my nuts are on fire!” But Collini just said that he was cauterizin’ sumpin or other, and I said that sure wasn’t in his damn brochure!

grapefruits-13217777Anyways, they finally finished me, and put some kinda damn tampon on me and helped me to suit up and stagger back out there to Mary. They gib me a prescription for some pain pills and a post-operative instruction sheet, which was to go home and ice my balls, and stay off my feet whether I felt okay or not, otherwise the damn things would get swolled up to the size of a pair of grapefruits.

I done it, and it ain’t no easy logistical matter to put yer rocks on ice, I can assure you, but we rigged up some kinda ball sling with ice in it, and I had my legs elervated and just generally sat there for a couple of days as cool as ye please. The kids was home for the summer, and they come in from time to time to laugh and look at me accusingly for not wanting any more just like ‘em.

And the curious thing about it, and I’m serious here, is that I was kinda sad about the whole thing, because eben though I was sure I dint want no more kids, I could say that a phase of my life was plum over, and I wasn’t worth much more than a slab o’ meat, and perhaps my natural purpose in life was done complete, and I might as well just up and croak. That lasted a couple of days, I guess it was post-ballum depression or sumpin.

And that’s my story, whatchu think?

Your friend,


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  1. My ‘ole man got ‘im ona these aways back and I shore dont ‘member all dees side effects. Guess he got his snip laporospocially, or some’un. Or maybe he’z just tuf. (I admire your use of punctuation in this!)

    Liked by 1 person

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