Guide To Testicular Cancer

Though generally rare, testicular cancer is dangerous, particularly among men aged 15 to 35. As a service, we are glad to provide this guide to testicular cancer for our male readers.

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• If you feel a hardended lump in your scrotum, you have cancer. You are going to die.

• Black men are four times more likely to develop testicular cancer than white men. And they have bigger penises.

• Contrary to popular belief, tight underwear does not cause testicular cancer. However, wearing tight underwear might.

• Perform a testicular self-exam monthly. As a reward, masturbate afterwards.

• Before visiting the doctor, tape your penis to your abdomen to make it easier for the doctor to examine your testicles.

• If you are circumsized, you can paint your penis like a helmeted soldier to serve as an icebreaker when you pull your pants down. If you are uncircumsized, paint it like an elephant's trunk. (Avoid making elephant-like sounds.)

• Heterosexual men should be examined by a male doctor. Homosexuals should find a female doctor. If you are a bisexual male, you will not be able to be examined or treated. You should have thought about that.

• While being examined, do everything you can to avoid an erection. No one will be impressed, and it's very distracting.

• To prepare for surgery, you'll need to shave your pubic hair. Fortunately, chicks dig smooth guys.

• If you have a testicle removed, you might as well just assume the nickname "Lopsided."

The Thin Man

He is an arrogant SOB, so full of himself he must shop at the Big & Large Men's Store just to find pants that fit. He thinks he knows the truth, but the reality is, he makes it up. As a documentary film maker, he is able to take bits of the truth and edit it the way he wants, to tell the story he wants to tell, even though it didn't really happen that way.

On talk shows, he comes across as intelligent, but that, too, is a creation. Since he knows days, if not weeks in advance of his scheduled appearance, he writes his script, and the talk show hosts and producers are only too interested to allow him his little charade, because he says what they want to believe.

No one really noticed that he doesn't do sit-down interviews, only topical talk shows to sell his movie -- a place where the hosts are either in it for the laughs, or they're just too good looking for newspapers or radio. This gives both host and guest a comfortable ground where neither is challenged, nor works too hard -- if at all.

The Filmmaker may be close to 400 pounds, but his veneer is transparent. His political agenda is all that matters, and how it is achieved isn't important. If that means misleading people, or just making up facts, then that's okay. The ends really do justify the means, and if it means getting his way in the end, so much the better.

So when it didn't, and the man he so bitterly opposed publicly and in his skewed film was elected to the highest office in the land, he tried to label the process a scam, and insisted the system is flawed.

Of course it is. But it always has been, and when it worked to his advantage in past elections, that was okay. Now it's different.

-----

No one was really surprised that he was found dead. There were reports that when the networks announced the winner of the election, he passed out in his hotel room. He collapsed from the disappointment, the rumors said. Whether it was true or not, in the days, weeks and months that followed, he stayed in seclusion, even turning away friends. His wife became worried, but did nothing.

On July 21, he was found on his sofa, a gunshot wound to the head. A gun on the floor by his feet. The police did all the requisite tests, and labelled the case a suicide. And it might as well have been. When one stakes their reputation on the lies they have created, only to have the broad determination of the electorate ignore you and pass you by, one might understand the despondancy. He so hated the man who was now President, that even his own life was less important than his hatred.

His journal indicated thoughts of an assassination, even a few unlikely scenarios, but in the end, he nixed these ideas since the vice president, in his eyes, was worse -- more evil. He once said on one of his talk-show appearances "Two wrongs don't make a right, but two idiots can run the country." It was a line he worked on for over a month before using it, and he gave it an actor's reading, relishing the uproarious laughter that followed.

Now he lies in a double-sized casket, his life's work a footnote to his own failures. There were a flurry of conspiracy theories, that someone in the "evil" government had silenced him, but those proved fruitless since he had done a good job of silencing himself before ending it all.

If you ask his widow, well, she wasn't talking, but it did seem curious that she had contacted a lawyer -- a divorce lawyer -- weeks before the suicide. It was also interesting that their prenuptual agreement kept her away from his fortune in the event of a divorce. But not a death.

Of course, the matter was all speculation, even when she packed up, sold the house and moved to a Caribbean estate. The gun that killed him had only his fingerprints. The experts said the entire death scene was -- based on the evidence -- the result of a suicide. There was nothing to indicated anything otherwise.

They certainly couldn't use as evidence the widow's recent relationship with a Washington politician of some repute who was a member of the ruling party. That one was over, and almost beside the point. Just because the circumstances were suspicious, the evidence didn't lie. Especially when The Filmaker's journal indicated he knew about his wife's activities, and this, mixed with the political loss and public humiliation of being ignored over something he felt so passionately about, simply led him to a despondancy that he saw no way out of.

Did she do it on purpose, flaunt her affair with a political enemy of her huband's so that he would kill himself? Perhaps, but probably not. The prenup said that if she divorced him, she got nothing. If he divorced her, however, she got half. He would not, however, divorce her for another woman. No other woman would have him. He was too large, did not smell good, and was sexually incompetent. He didn't care. All that mattered were his thoughts -- his ideas, even if they were paper thin and useless. The widow was probably flaunting her affair so he would file for divorce, and give her half.

Instead, he gave more than she could dream of. Not only did she get it all, but she never had to deal with him again. No more looking at him, smelling him, or listening to him orate on the evils of the political party he detested. He was in the ground, and she was in paradise.

God Bless America.

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(c) 2005 Eric Dalen

Lydia (unfinished)

She smiled at me, and my heart jumped. Then it started racing. She handed me my change, and I knew it was hopeless. She was maybe 18. I'm nearly 30 and haven't been on a date since . . . well, it's been a while.

Her hair was black -- dyed, most likely -- her skin flawless and smooth, her eyes a sparkly blue, her teeth . . . I could go on and on. I had this strange impulse to smell her. But it probably wouldn't do any good. After all, she works at Starbucks and probably smells like coffee. Besides, it may have been a while since I've been close to a woman, but I know they don't like being smelled.

I remember my dad asking me: "You ever been to the mall and seen these gorgeous women with these loser men? You ever wonder why these ugly guys get the beautiful ladies? Because the nice looking guys don't think they have a chance. They think she's already with someone, and she wouldn't give them the time of day. But the ugly dudes . . . they've got nothing to lose."

It was a day or two later that I had to ask myself why my dad told me that story. Was he trying to inspire me? Am I one of the ugly dudes? And since my dad married his high school sweetheart, getting advice from him on picking up women was like the Pope offering honeymoon tips.

Lydia, her name tag said. I thanked her as I took a few extra seconds to put the change in my pocket and stare at her amazing face. "See you tomorrow," I managed to say without sputtering.

She beamed at me, said "Okay!", then looked away to the next customer.

I was so absorbed in Lydia that I walked away, forgetting to get cream, sugar and a lid. I stood outside my car, fishing for my keys, looking down at my steaming hot coffee, wondering what I was thinking, and that now I can't go back in there without looking like a total dork. I don't mind looking like a partial dork, but a total dork is unacceptable.

Lydia.

-----

The next morning, I had to leave extra early for a drive into downtown. Fortunately, Starbucks opens at five, and I was there not a minute after, hoping this wasn't her day off. Or that she traded shifts with someone.

The door was unlocked, and the lights were on, that coffeehouse music playing over the speakers. I was the first customer. I approached the counter and stood, but didn't see anyone.
Probably in the back arranging the scones on a platter, or washing the cups for the morning rush.

I jingled my keys a little to see if that might catch anyone's attention, but --

A foot.

Behind the counter. On the floor.

A foot.

Black shoe, no sock. Bare ankle just below khaki pants. The rest is obscured by the pastry display.

I lean over and see the blood. A lot of blood. I thought she was wearing a red shirt, but it's the blood.

-----

The police pulled up within a minute and a half. The 911 dispatcher told me to go outside and wait, and that's where I was when they came. They had their guns drawn. I just pointed.

The first cop nodded, and he and his partner moved toward the doors.

God. Lydia.

(c) 2005 Eric Dalen

Poems

FEMALE POEM

I want a man who's handsome, smart and strong
One who loves to listen long
One who thinks before he speaks
One who'll call, not wait for weeks

I want him to be gainfully employed
When I spend his cash, he should not be annoyed
He pulls out my chair and opens my door
Massages my back and begs to do more

Oh! For a man who makes love to my mind
And knows what to answer to "how big is my behind?"
I want this man to love with no end
And to be my very best friend

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MALE POEM

I want a deaf-mute nymphomaniac with huge boobs
who owns a liquor store and a bass boat
I know this doesn't rhyme and I don't give a shit

Yes, I Think

I was curious. I wanted a Mega M & M.

The commercial showed an M & M large enough to cause a concussion if dropped on a person's head. Wow, that's my kind of candy.

I go to my local store, and buy a package, knowing immediately something isn't right: The bag is smaller than the life-threatening candy-coated chocolates on TV. When I get home and open the package, I discover words cannot begin to express my disappointment.

Mega M & M's are not "mega". Not even a midget would think anything about the candy was extra large, or even large. A hamster would have trouble tripping over the thing. Okay, so they're bigger than regular M & M's and maybe even Peanut M & M's (though I doubt it). But they're definitely not Mega.

But damn they're good.

Not To Scale

I don’t know why I agreed. Okay, yes I do. Two reasons: I needed the money, and there would be women there. I don’t know about you, but when you’re 23 (as I was at the time), money, sex and food (not necessarily in that order) are prime motivators. I’m sure they still are 20 years later, though for different reasons.

“We need a model,” Ronald (not Ron) said.

I was thinking sport jackets and weekend casual slacks, but he meant nude -- as in standing in the middle of the room while artists painted or sketched away. I thought about for maybe ten seconds, but only after he said it paid $10 an hour. That was more than I made at my day job, though it would only be for the hour.

Despite the fact that getting paid for standing naked in front of people veered slightly toward the seedy side, Ronald assured me that it was strictly on the up-and-up. It was, after all, a community college. What could be more boring?

I showed up 15 minutes early and, being in my early 20’s, had failed to think much past the obvious. For example: I show up, take off my clothes, and stand there while “artists” draw me. (Considering they were enrolled in Community College Night School, I give them their title lightly.) Ronald, however, who had lined up more than his share of male and female models in his time, simply asked “Did you bring a robe?”

No, I said, and was about to ask why I would need a robe, when I realized its importance. Was I to stand in the middle of the room while everyone watched me remove my clothing one piece at a time like an amateur stripper? Or should I disrobe in the men’s room and then make the trek to the classroom in the altogether?

Fortunately, Ronald offered an alternative, pointing at a side-door that led to the next classroom that was empty for the night. So, I entered, turned on the lights, and began to get nekkid. The second thing I realized too late was that when I took off my shoes and socks, the floor was freezing. Then I made the mistake of sitting in a chair while removing my jeans and underwear. The feeling of cold, stark plastic on a warm, stark bum will quickly remove any excitement that may been creeping its way into the blood.

What was I thinking? I’m not a male model in the sense of male models you may know and love. I don’t have sculpted abs or taut muscles. I’m not flabby either, but I know for a fact that if I worked at Chippendales, there would be few, if any, dollar bills coming my way. And here I was standing naked in a chilly classroom, getting ready to be paid ten dollars so a small group of complete strangers could make a rendering of my wiener. (Okay, so maybe that wasn’t the main reason either they or I was there, but at that moment, it’s what it boiled down to.)

The thought that there would be women in that circle of “artists” was both the reason I was there and one hell of a scary thought.

And so I stood there, buck nekkid, waiting for my cue.

After what seemed to be an eternity, Ronald stuck his head through the door and said “We’re ready.”

I strolled out and made my way to the platform in the middle of a circle of nine people -- seven female, two male. Of the females, only one was anywhere near my age, while the rest were more mom-like. I didn’t know whether to find this comforting or disturbing. One male was maybe 50, while the other was 18 or 19. Everyone looked at my wiener. None had any discernible reaction. I didn’t know whether to find this comforting or disturbing.

Then Ronald was suddenly behind me, his hand on my shoulder. “Kneel down on one knee,” he said, pushing gently. He was positioning me. He moved one hand to rest on my raised thigh, the other on my hip. I was in that position for about 20 minutes when Ronald called for a break.

This was the other moment when a robe would have come in handy. Ronald invited me to take a look at the work in progress, and my clothes were in the other room. So, out of a sense of misplaced politeness, I walked nude around the room taking in the “artists” impressions of my body. To my surprise, it was better than I thought, it was worse than I thought. Five of the “artists” didn’t even attempt to sketch my wiener -- two of them rendered that section as a vague lump, the others turned me into a Ken doll -- while three of the others created a facsimile that was neither detailed nor accurate.

The ninth person -- a middle-aged woman with large glasses (“The better to see you with, my dear!”) -- had done an explicit and enlarged pencil drawing of my privates that was both detailed and accurate. Still, it should have had a caption that read “Not To Scale.”

Ronald had asked me to not comment on any of the drawings, so I didn’t, though I’m sure on that last one, my eyes nearly bugged out of my head.

Then the students turned their pads to a fresh sheet of paper, and Ronald asked me back to the platform where he positioned me in a cross-legged sitting position, my shoulders and head stretched back At least a comprehensive rendering of my noogies would be impossible.

--

I was invited back two weeks later, and Ronald mentioned in passing that there would be another model there as well. This didn’t sink in until I hung up, at which point I wondered if the other body would be male or female. There were positives and negatives to this, particularly if Ronald positioned our bodies.

This time I brought a robe, though I felt pretty silly carrying it around campus. I could visualize someone asking me what the robe was for, and I would answer “I’m a nude model” and then wait for the laughter. It’s a little like people who wear “I’m a porn star” t-shirt . . . you know they’re not, but they want you to think they are, which is a little creepy.

Fortunately, no one asked me why I was carrying a bathrobe around, though thinking back, I’m sure they were afraid to.

When I got to the classroom, I discovered my nude modeling partner was a young lady about my age, and somewhat attractive. Not drop-dead gorgeous, but cute and perky. We were introduced (her name was Sara), and Ronald pointed us in the direction of the classroom next door.

Okay. Another unforeseen circumstance. Getting professionally naked with a member of the opposite gender. Hhmm. I wondered how I would react to that, if you know what I mean.

Sara, apparently, had no inhibitions about her body whatsoever, which would have been fantastic if we were on a date. She chatted away (I could not tell you about what) while removing her clothes, while I spent too much time folding and unfolding my robe and unlacing my shoes. This created a situation where she was totally nude, chatting away, and watching me as I slowly peeled off my clothes. Finally, there I was, and I tried to coolly put on my robe. Unfortunately, my right arm couldn’t find the sleeve, and I stood there for perhaps a full minute, struggling to cover up while the parts I wanted covered up were very much exposed. Finally, I got the thing on and fastened the sash while realizing (again too late) that Uninhibited Sara had no robe.

This created a whole new dilemma: Should I walk out there covered up while Sara was au natural? Or should I join her in uninhibitedness?

I did the next best thing.

“Would you like to borrow my robe?” I asked.

“No, that’s okay.” And then she continued chatting, which became soothing. It distracted me from the situation, though I still couldn’t tell you what she talked about.

Then Ronald stuck his head in and invited us out. At the last second, I dropped the robe.

--

M.O.N.

We were looking for a restroom. We're in the middle of nowhere -- literally. The only other people we see are in cars going the other way, and those aren't very frequent. You could lay on the highway, take a nap, and not have to worry about getting run over in your sleep.

Maya has a bladder the size of a walnut, so bathrooms are a frequent stop. She won't pee anywhere else -- not behind a tree, not behind a building, not behind the car. Worse, if a restroom doesn't meet her standards, we'll have to find another.

So we walk in to Taco Time -- a greasy spoon without the spoon -- and the sign on the door says "Restrooms for customers only." That means we've got to buy something. Maya is doing the Tijuana Two-Step, on the verge of squirting right there.

We'd been traveling back home, and this is basically a spec on a map, The Middle of Nowhere, Utah 85700. I order a burrito, and ask for the key to the restroom.

"It's open," the fat girl behind the counter says.

Maya streaks off for the ladies room.

Great. What am I supposed to do with this burrito?
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Been A While, Not Much, How 'Bout You?

I hate it when I read a blog and someone apologizes for not posting for such a long time . . . as if every one has been holding their breath for the next word. Not likely.

If you're that enamored of yourself, then you're the only one checking out your own blog.

I have a niece who, despite being 14, is not very talkative. She doesn't have much to say, and so she doesn't say it -- unlike most of the rest of us. We seem to need to fill the air, even if it's only pollution.

So I haven't posted in four months. Does anyone care?







Hello?





(See what I mean?)

The Heather Thing

Heather has been living with us full time for about a year and a half -- she's the daughter of one of Isabella's relatives. Heather is 18 and got into trouble with her boyfriend (his backseat -- I think you can figure out what they were doing) in May 2003.

I say that Heather is living with us, but really we're more like a storage unit in which she doesn't have to pay rent. I hardly ever see her. Between going to school, her job and her hanging out with friends in her spare time (including the reprobate boyfriend), Heather spends about twenty minutes here to take a shower and change clothes.

Anyway, this boyfriend of hers is a real gem. Remember, Heather is 18, and she was 16 when she came here after getting caught testing his equipment. Troy is 23. He was 21 then. Yes, he could have been nailed (pardon the expression) for statutory rape. But he got off (pardon the expression) through . . . well, I was going to say "charm" but that's like saying Jerry Lewis is an intellectual.

Troy didn't graduate from High School, usually doesn't have a job, lives with his parents and thinks he's the next Eminem. (I'm not kidding about that.) To say he is a "Loser" would be to give a losers a bad name.

Tonight, Troy and Heather got in a fight. For some reason, she tried to kick the windshield in on her own car, then Troy (who was driving) took off without her. He's such a silly girl. Someone passing by almost called the police. Why they didn't is beyond me, but it apparently fits in with everything else that happened.

What does Heather see in this boy (and I use the term loosely)? I have no idea, but they're both turning out to be candidates for the TV show Cops.

Did I forget to mention that Troy was arrested in January for cocaine? And that it was his second bust? Now do you believe that "Loser" is too cool for him?

Gobble

Thanksgiving. A big freakin' hullabaloo.

Originally, we were supposed to go to have Thanksgiving with my wife's mother's (Irene's) family in San Diego. But Isabella's sister (Theresa) didn't want to go, so Isabella's mother didn't want to go, so we went to Irene's estranged husband's daughter's home in Anaheim.

I'm not making any of that up. That's what divorce does.

I must admit, despite my disappointment at not spending the holiday the way originally planned (and the way I wanted), I had a great time. So I'll shut up now.