WØTKX
07-24-2017, 10:04 PM
Some of you know about Jim Wright. About a year ago, he posted this...
Jim Wright, July 21, 2016...
I know.
After my summary of the first two days, you’re expecting something ... special ... for the final day of the Republican National Convention.
You’re in luck.
Let me tell you about my vasectomy.
After much … self examination … and for personal reasons that you don’t need to know anything about, my wife and I decided I should get a vasectomy. Or rather I suggested it as the best solution to our situation and my wife agreed.
We were living in California at the time and I got most of my medical work done in the United States Marine Corps Hospital at Camp Pendleton. Ooh Rah! I was assigned to a ship in San Diego, I saw my shipboard Chief Corpsman who thought it a spiffy idea for Warrant Officers not to breed and enthusiastically wrote me a referral and made the appointment with the Pendleton urology department. I talked to the doc and had the counselling and got a permission slip from my wife and left my dignity at the door.
A few days later I found myself on the table, shaved, with the appropriate organs protruding through a surgical sheet, under some incredibly bright lights, on display for the doctor and a bunch of medical students – because if you’re going to do it, you might as well invite everybody over to make comments and poke around and compare notes among themselves. And what the hell, I’m not shy. Come on in.
The doc jabbed me with a needle in a place I don’t want to EVER think about again and we all waited, chatting like people do when they’re lying on a table with their junk out in front of a bunch of urology interns, so hot enough for ya? How about those Mets? while we waited for the local anesthesia to do its thing to my thing.
The doc made the first cut, while I stared at the ceiling and sang Anchors Aweigh to myself to drown out his classroom lecture. See here? Scootch in a little closer. Everybody. Okay, after you make the incision you reach in with the pliers and grab this here little hose and ANCHORS AWEIGH MY BOYS ANCHORS AWEIGH! and pull that sucker right on out like a bird sucking a worm from the hole and STAND NAVY OUT TO SEA, FIGHT OUR BATTLE CRY! WE’LL NEVER CHANGE OUR COURSE SO VICIOUS FOES STEER SHY-Y-Y-Y! tie it in a square knot whoops that’s a slippery little devil isn’t it? You in back can you see okay or you want me to lift it up a bit … I think there’s enough slack … no? Okay so anyway next you gotta zap the tag end with some electricity ROLL OUT THE TNT ANCHORS AWEIGH! SAIL ON TO VICTORY AND SINK. THEIR. BONES. TO DAVY JONES. HOORAY!! and bzzzzzzp! bzzzzrpt! smells like burnt dog hair and that’s what we’re looking for, tuck that back in and give ‘er a stitch, here put your finger right there, hold, good! and who wants to do the other one? Hello you, with the crossed eyes and the palsy, it’s your lucky day, Bolter! ANCHORS AWEIGH MY BOYS ANCHORS AWEIGH! okay, don’t worry about that, that could happen to anybody FAREWELL TO FOREIGN SHORES! maybe somebody who isn’t hungover? WE SAIL AT BREAK OF DAY-Y-Y-YAAAAAAH! and there you go. Good as new.
They sent me home with a bottle of Motrin and an icepack in my pants and advised me to “take it easy for a few days.”
Instead, the next day I was headed out of the harbor for three days of sea trials.
Chief Warrant Officers are naturally well endowed and I’m pretty sure nobody noticed the ice packs. Or the fact that I spent three days clutching my self protectively as the ship lurched through the stormy waves. But somehow I survived and returned to land with everything mostly intact.
Thirty days passed.
I healed. I could walk without holding myself for fear of dropping anything out my pant leg. I could pee without screaming. My voice remained in its usual register. Everything seemed to work as usual.
And so it came time for the final test.
See, you have to produce a sample. And some poor bastard who thought he was signing up to fight commies and save lives and get a leg up on medical school and instead ended up as a lab tech at United State Marine Corps Camp Pendleton Hospital has to peer through a microscope all day at other people’s … well, anyway, let’s say I never wanted to be a lab tech.
So, I went in after the appropriate time had passed for the follow up.
The doc gave me a sample jar and told me I could either avail myself of a little room they had or I could go home and take care of business there.
The little room was a closet with a chair and some magazines that opened off a waiting room full of about 60 or 70 old veterans waiting to have their prostates palpitated. The TV was busted and all they for entertainment was to stare at that closet and dream of better days.
I’ll take Option B, I said to the doc.
I live right outside the back gate. I fully understand, said the doc, go home, do the thing and drop the sample off within 30 minutes to the volunteer at the Urology Desk. We’ll let you know the results in a day or so.
The next morning dawned bright and clear and beautiful as only Southern California can be and so I choose to drive the convertible – which would be a fine coda to an already great morning, sample wise, I mean. I rolled through the gate with the jar safely contained in a brown paper lunch bag on the passenger seat and returned the Marine sentry’s salute with an extra snap. Hell of a morning isn’t it, Sir? It is indeed, Marine, the best kind. I bounced up the steps of the hospital, saluted the guards there as they held the door open for me and proceeded jauntily toward Urology, bag in hand.
Fellas, I greeted the waiting room. How’s it hangin’ yuck yuck.
Brought you something, I said cheerfully to the old battle ax behind the window. I pulled out the sample jar and set it on the counter. Mission Aye-Complished as the Commander in Chiefs says. Follow up. Chief Warrant Officer Wright. Get that to the lab, Stat.
She looked at the cup.
She looked at me.
She looked at the cup.
And that’s when the day went all to hell.
“I don’t accept samples from off site.”
Beg pardon, Nurse Ratchet?
“I do not accept samples from off site.”
Well, get somebody else then, because I spoke to the doc and…
“The DOCTORS do NOT run this office. I do. And I do NOT accept samples from off site.”
I don’t honestly think it’s up to you. I’m in a hurry and that stuff has a shelf life. Let’s get this done. Where do I sign?
It was about then that I noticed every old regular in the waiting room was looking on in utter fascination.
Apparently one did not talk back to Nurse Ratchet.
They were all grinning at my impertinence, waiting for her to drop a hammer on me.
“You’ll have to get a new sample bottle from the lab and complete the process here.”
Why, you gonna help? I made the appropriate hand gesture.
The waiting room behind me gasped in horrified fascination.
“Young man, any more comments like that and I’ll have you escorted from the hospital.”
And that’s where my patience ended. Right there.
Listen, Ratchet, I said. You’re not in charge here. I’m a US Navy Chief Warrant Officer. This is a Marine Corps Hospital. You’re just some over zealous volunteer with an overinflated sense of your own importance. You can push these old geezers around all you like, but that shit doesn’t fly with me. I’m following the doctor’s direction and your job is to take care of it. You want polite respect, you should have started out on that foot. Now, either do it or find somebody who can.
I might have been somewhat … colorful … with my language.
By the time I was done, I was in full on Warrant Office mode and it’s likely the sentry at the gate two miles away could hear me. The place had gone dead silent. The old men had stopped grinning and were suddenly looking all kinds of awestruck and respectful, this was way better than TV and slightly better than speculating about what happened behind that closet door.
A Marine guard appeared (we were at war then, and Marines take security SERIOUSLY) but wisely made no move to interfere.
Ratchet crossed her arms stubbornly and refused to budge.
I was just about to yank her ass straight through the window when the doctor appeared.
Doctor. Chief Urologist. Navy Captain. That guy. And none too pleased was he.
What’s all the shouting out here?
Ratchet opened her mouth …
…and I shoved her foot into it. I explained to the doctor what the problem was and helpfully added how HE didn’t run his department, Ratchet did.
A number of old men in the chairs behind me offered to corroborate my version of things and we were suddenly all pals in the face of oppression and tyranny.
The doctor grew slowly more and more angry as the situation became apparent.
Take. The. Sample. And. Process. It. Per. Procedure. NOW. he said to Ratchet through gritted teeth.
I will not, she answered. That’s not how I run this office.
I looked at the doc.
The doc looked at me.
Ratchet’s pinched face was a study in defiant absolutism, like Saddam on the gallows. Unrepentant and convinced of his power and superiority to the bitter end.
The Marine guard stood by with a carefully neutral expression on his handsome chiseled face.
The old men cackled.
I looked at the doc.
The doctor, the Navy CAPTAIN, turned a smoldering red – the kind of color they paint danger signs in.
Take. The. Sample. NOW. And process it as directed or I will have that Marine right there throw your ass through the front door into the parking lot. You and I will talk before you leave tonight. Now do it, or clean out your desk.
Fine! Ratchet shouted. Fine! Why don’t we just let them all do what they want? You’ll see! You’ll see! There’s a system for a reason! Doctors. You don’t know ANYTHING! Fine! FINE! and she grabbed up my sample and waved it violently in the air. IT’S NOT SIGNED, she shouted, IT’S NOT SIGNED. HE’LL HAVE TO SIGN IT OR I WON’T DO IT!
And she slammed the sample cup down on the counter…
And the lid popped off…
And the contents of the container flew up and outward in a violent ejaculation...
And struck me directly in the face.
…
…
I’ll just pause for a moment so you can picture that…
…
…
Ready to go on?
I stood there, with the sample dripping down the front of my uniform like something out of a Ron Jeremy movie gone horribly wrong.
The old men were FINALLY stunned into aghast silence.
The Doctor, a man who’d spent his life stitching up Marines in various states of disassembly was frozen, unable to move, horrified.
The Marine’s face remained immobile, frozen like granite, wisely showing no emotion whatsoever, but his hand moved to unsnap his sidearm and I knew I could count on him if it came down to it.
You see? THAT’s why we have a system, said Ratchet primly.
And she handed me a tissue.
The doctor looked at me.
Get. The. Hospital. Commander. NOW. I said. And I could literally feel my pulse pounding in my ears and the blood moving in my veins. And the spunk dripping down my cheeks.
And a few minutes later half a dozen Navy Captains were apologizing profusely to me and nervously handing me Kleenexes while old men laughed uproariously in the background.
Ratchet was escorted from the office by Marines, I have no idea what happened to her and don’t care but it is my fervent hope that it involved something that required her to touch human shit with her bare hands for eight hours a day.
I was offered another, clean, sample cup and instructed to deliver it to the lab department commander who would personally see that it was properly taken care of.
All this while, goo was dripping down the front of my uniform.
I gathered what was left of my dignity and marched for the front door. The Marines there carefully avoided eye contact and their salutes were crisp and without fault as if they were rendering honors to God himself with their very souls on the line – and as well they might have been.
I marched down the steps, back straight, head up. Through the outdoor canteen area where families sat at little tables eating hotdogs. Stained uniform like a signal light for all to see. Sample cup labelled “SEMEN” held prominently in one hand. How you doing, Folks, hell of a day, right?
I got to the parking lot and just as I slid behind the wheel of the convertible…
… the skies opened and it began to rain.
…
…
And what does any of this have to do with the Republican National Convention?
Are you kidding? Dick jokes and eager young interns with their hands on your junk. Giggling impotent old men eager for a show. Inflexible self righteous authoritarianism. Anger. Shouting. Marines. Jerking off. Outrage. Violation. Embarrassment. Mortification. Forced to tough it out to the bitter end.
And finally you go home dirty and used, clothes ruined, dignity long fled, covered in sticky goo and shooting blanks.
In the rain.
Honestly, what DOESN’T it have to do with the Republican National Convention?
See you tomorrow, Folks. My regards to Mr. Trump.
Jim Wright, July 21, 2016...
I know.
After my summary of the first two days, you’re expecting something ... special ... for the final day of the Republican National Convention.
You’re in luck.
Let me tell you about my vasectomy.
After much … self examination … and for personal reasons that you don’t need to know anything about, my wife and I decided I should get a vasectomy. Or rather I suggested it as the best solution to our situation and my wife agreed.
We were living in California at the time and I got most of my medical work done in the United States Marine Corps Hospital at Camp Pendleton. Ooh Rah! I was assigned to a ship in San Diego, I saw my shipboard Chief Corpsman who thought it a spiffy idea for Warrant Officers not to breed and enthusiastically wrote me a referral and made the appointment with the Pendleton urology department. I talked to the doc and had the counselling and got a permission slip from my wife and left my dignity at the door.
A few days later I found myself on the table, shaved, with the appropriate organs protruding through a surgical sheet, under some incredibly bright lights, on display for the doctor and a bunch of medical students – because if you’re going to do it, you might as well invite everybody over to make comments and poke around and compare notes among themselves. And what the hell, I’m not shy. Come on in.
The doc jabbed me with a needle in a place I don’t want to EVER think about again and we all waited, chatting like people do when they’re lying on a table with their junk out in front of a bunch of urology interns, so hot enough for ya? How about those Mets? while we waited for the local anesthesia to do its thing to my thing.
The doc made the first cut, while I stared at the ceiling and sang Anchors Aweigh to myself to drown out his classroom lecture. See here? Scootch in a little closer. Everybody. Okay, after you make the incision you reach in with the pliers and grab this here little hose and ANCHORS AWEIGH MY BOYS ANCHORS AWEIGH! and pull that sucker right on out like a bird sucking a worm from the hole and STAND NAVY OUT TO SEA, FIGHT OUR BATTLE CRY! WE’LL NEVER CHANGE OUR COURSE SO VICIOUS FOES STEER SHY-Y-Y-Y! tie it in a square knot whoops that’s a slippery little devil isn’t it? You in back can you see okay or you want me to lift it up a bit … I think there’s enough slack … no? Okay so anyway next you gotta zap the tag end with some electricity ROLL OUT THE TNT ANCHORS AWEIGH! SAIL ON TO VICTORY AND SINK. THEIR. BONES. TO DAVY JONES. HOORAY!! and bzzzzzzp! bzzzzrpt! smells like burnt dog hair and that’s what we’re looking for, tuck that back in and give ‘er a stitch, here put your finger right there, hold, good! and who wants to do the other one? Hello you, with the crossed eyes and the palsy, it’s your lucky day, Bolter! ANCHORS AWEIGH MY BOYS ANCHORS AWEIGH! okay, don’t worry about that, that could happen to anybody FAREWELL TO FOREIGN SHORES! maybe somebody who isn’t hungover? WE SAIL AT BREAK OF DAY-Y-Y-YAAAAAAH! and there you go. Good as new.
They sent me home with a bottle of Motrin and an icepack in my pants and advised me to “take it easy for a few days.”
Instead, the next day I was headed out of the harbor for three days of sea trials.
Chief Warrant Officers are naturally well endowed and I’m pretty sure nobody noticed the ice packs. Or the fact that I spent three days clutching my self protectively as the ship lurched through the stormy waves. But somehow I survived and returned to land with everything mostly intact.
Thirty days passed.
I healed. I could walk without holding myself for fear of dropping anything out my pant leg. I could pee without screaming. My voice remained in its usual register. Everything seemed to work as usual.
And so it came time for the final test.
See, you have to produce a sample. And some poor bastard who thought he was signing up to fight commies and save lives and get a leg up on medical school and instead ended up as a lab tech at United State Marine Corps Camp Pendleton Hospital has to peer through a microscope all day at other people’s … well, anyway, let’s say I never wanted to be a lab tech.
So, I went in after the appropriate time had passed for the follow up.
The doc gave me a sample jar and told me I could either avail myself of a little room they had or I could go home and take care of business there.
The little room was a closet with a chair and some magazines that opened off a waiting room full of about 60 or 70 old veterans waiting to have their prostates palpitated. The TV was busted and all they for entertainment was to stare at that closet and dream of better days.
I’ll take Option B, I said to the doc.
I live right outside the back gate. I fully understand, said the doc, go home, do the thing and drop the sample off within 30 minutes to the volunteer at the Urology Desk. We’ll let you know the results in a day or so.
The next morning dawned bright and clear and beautiful as only Southern California can be and so I choose to drive the convertible – which would be a fine coda to an already great morning, sample wise, I mean. I rolled through the gate with the jar safely contained in a brown paper lunch bag on the passenger seat and returned the Marine sentry’s salute with an extra snap. Hell of a morning isn’t it, Sir? It is indeed, Marine, the best kind. I bounced up the steps of the hospital, saluted the guards there as they held the door open for me and proceeded jauntily toward Urology, bag in hand.
Fellas, I greeted the waiting room. How’s it hangin’ yuck yuck.
Brought you something, I said cheerfully to the old battle ax behind the window. I pulled out the sample jar and set it on the counter. Mission Aye-Complished as the Commander in Chiefs says. Follow up. Chief Warrant Officer Wright. Get that to the lab, Stat.
She looked at the cup.
She looked at me.
She looked at the cup.
And that’s when the day went all to hell.
“I don’t accept samples from off site.”
Beg pardon, Nurse Ratchet?
“I do not accept samples from off site.”
Well, get somebody else then, because I spoke to the doc and…
“The DOCTORS do NOT run this office. I do. And I do NOT accept samples from off site.”
I don’t honestly think it’s up to you. I’m in a hurry and that stuff has a shelf life. Let’s get this done. Where do I sign?
It was about then that I noticed every old regular in the waiting room was looking on in utter fascination.
Apparently one did not talk back to Nurse Ratchet.
They were all grinning at my impertinence, waiting for her to drop a hammer on me.
“You’ll have to get a new sample bottle from the lab and complete the process here.”
Why, you gonna help? I made the appropriate hand gesture.
The waiting room behind me gasped in horrified fascination.
“Young man, any more comments like that and I’ll have you escorted from the hospital.”
And that’s where my patience ended. Right there.
Listen, Ratchet, I said. You’re not in charge here. I’m a US Navy Chief Warrant Officer. This is a Marine Corps Hospital. You’re just some over zealous volunteer with an overinflated sense of your own importance. You can push these old geezers around all you like, but that shit doesn’t fly with me. I’m following the doctor’s direction and your job is to take care of it. You want polite respect, you should have started out on that foot. Now, either do it or find somebody who can.
I might have been somewhat … colorful … with my language.
By the time I was done, I was in full on Warrant Office mode and it’s likely the sentry at the gate two miles away could hear me. The place had gone dead silent. The old men had stopped grinning and were suddenly looking all kinds of awestruck and respectful, this was way better than TV and slightly better than speculating about what happened behind that closet door.
A Marine guard appeared (we were at war then, and Marines take security SERIOUSLY) but wisely made no move to interfere.
Ratchet crossed her arms stubbornly and refused to budge.
I was just about to yank her ass straight through the window when the doctor appeared.
Doctor. Chief Urologist. Navy Captain. That guy. And none too pleased was he.
What’s all the shouting out here?
Ratchet opened her mouth …
…and I shoved her foot into it. I explained to the doctor what the problem was and helpfully added how HE didn’t run his department, Ratchet did.
A number of old men in the chairs behind me offered to corroborate my version of things and we were suddenly all pals in the face of oppression and tyranny.
The doctor grew slowly more and more angry as the situation became apparent.
Take. The. Sample. And. Process. It. Per. Procedure. NOW. he said to Ratchet through gritted teeth.
I will not, she answered. That’s not how I run this office.
I looked at the doc.
The doc looked at me.
Ratchet’s pinched face was a study in defiant absolutism, like Saddam on the gallows. Unrepentant and convinced of his power and superiority to the bitter end.
The Marine guard stood by with a carefully neutral expression on his handsome chiseled face.
The old men cackled.
I looked at the doc.
The doctor, the Navy CAPTAIN, turned a smoldering red – the kind of color they paint danger signs in.
Take. The. Sample. NOW. And process it as directed or I will have that Marine right there throw your ass through the front door into the parking lot. You and I will talk before you leave tonight. Now do it, or clean out your desk.
Fine! Ratchet shouted. Fine! Why don’t we just let them all do what they want? You’ll see! You’ll see! There’s a system for a reason! Doctors. You don’t know ANYTHING! Fine! FINE! and she grabbed up my sample and waved it violently in the air. IT’S NOT SIGNED, she shouted, IT’S NOT SIGNED. HE’LL HAVE TO SIGN IT OR I WON’T DO IT!
And she slammed the sample cup down on the counter…
And the lid popped off…
And the contents of the container flew up and outward in a violent ejaculation...
And struck me directly in the face.
…
…
I’ll just pause for a moment so you can picture that…
…
…
Ready to go on?
I stood there, with the sample dripping down the front of my uniform like something out of a Ron Jeremy movie gone horribly wrong.
The old men were FINALLY stunned into aghast silence.
The Doctor, a man who’d spent his life stitching up Marines in various states of disassembly was frozen, unable to move, horrified.
The Marine’s face remained immobile, frozen like granite, wisely showing no emotion whatsoever, but his hand moved to unsnap his sidearm and I knew I could count on him if it came down to it.
You see? THAT’s why we have a system, said Ratchet primly.
And she handed me a tissue.
The doctor looked at me.
Get. The. Hospital. Commander. NOW. I said. And I could literally feel my pulse pounding in my ears and the blood moving in my veins. And the spunk dripping down my cheeks.
And a few minutes later half a dozen Navy Captains were apologizing profusely to me and nervously handing me Kleenexes while old men laughed uproariously in the background.
Ratchet was escorted from the office by Marines, I have no idea what happened to her and don’t care but it is my fervent hope that it involved something that required her to touch human shit with her bare hands for eight hours a day.
I was offered another, clean, sample cup and instructed to deliver it to the lab department commander who would personally see that it was properly taken care of.
All this while, goo was dripping down the front of my uniform.
I gathered what was left of my dignity and marched for the front door. The Marines there carefully avoided eye contact and their salutes were crisp and without fault as if they were rendering honors to God himself with their very souls on the line – and as well they might have been.
I marched down the steps, back straight, head up. Through the outdoor canteen area where families sat at little tables eating hotdogs. Stained uniform like a signal light for all to see. Sample cup labelled “SEMEN” held prominently in one hand. How you doing, Folks, hell of a day, right?
I got to the parking lot and just as I slid behind the wheel of the convertible…
… the skies opened and it began to rain.
…
…
And what does any of this have to do with the Republican National Convention?
Are you kidding? Dick jokes and eager young interns with their hands on your junk. Giggling impotent old men eager for a show. Inflexible self righteous authoritarianism. Anger. Shouting. Marines. Jerking off. Outrage. Violation. Embarrassment. Mortification. Forced to tough it out to the bitter end.
And finally you go home dirty and used, clothes ruined, dignity long fled, covered in sticky goo and shooting blanks.
In the rain.
Honestly, what DOESN’T it have to do with the Republican National Convention?
See you tomorrow, Folks. My regards to Mr. Trump.