16 Dec 2005
J. Bubba’s Whim-Wham.
Tomorrow is J. Bubba Cots‘s birthday, and what better way to celebrate this fact than to tell you all about his whim-wham?
Well, he can tell you about his whim-wham, anyway. (I have no knowledge of his whim-wham. Scout’s honor.) I got this awesome email this morning describing the process of Going to the Urologist and Finding Out You Have Kidney Stones. I will spare you the first paragraph, in which J. Bubba pontificates on how everyone in the waiting room was old and obviously there to discuss their old, non-functioning whim-whams. Not that it wasn’t a good paragraph. But I didn’t want you to get bored and not read the part about the x-ray and the pants around the ankles and then seeing his illuminated x-ray whim-wham up on the glowy x-ray reader thingie and all.
So there’s that, and then there’s the constant need for urine samples, and the constant need for walking around in front of all the nurses and physicians’ assistants, holding your “sample” like it’s your favorite Christmas present, and then, THEN, there’s the x-ray. And the x-ray is just humiliating. You go in, and they say ok just go ahead and pull your pants down around your ankles and then they act all cool, like it’s no big deal. But hey wait a minute. It is a big deal. I don’t want my pants around my ankles. That is the most humiliating, degrading, defenseless posture any human can be placed in. I don’t want ANYONE to see me with my pants around my ankles. Let me take my pants off. But they don’t give you that option, and if you do try to take your pants off, they’re going to look at you like “what’s your problem, freak? why you taking your pants off? we told you to pull ’em down, not take ’em off. you got some condition where you want to be taking your pants off in
public, or what?”So you wind up with your pants at your ankles, in a room WITHOUT A DOOR, laying on a freezing table like you’re awaiting autopsy on CSI:SVU, and then they take an x-ray of your private parts. They’re not really trying to get your whim-wham in the picture, but they do, because it’s there, and you can’t really hide it. Keep in mind that they’ve injected you with a substance that glows under x-rays, so that when the film is developed, and is printed out larger than life on a 3′ by 2′ image and displayed on a glowing backdrop in a room FULL of nurses and physicians’ assistants and interns and probably Amy Smithson from your Sunday-school class in 6th grade, THERE on public display, larger than life, in all its radiant, phosphorescent glory, is your whim-wham. And then to eliminate any doubt about whose whim-wham is being displayed, the doctors call you in to STAND DIRECTLY IN FRONT OF IT while they discuss what’s wrong with you.
Basically, what I’m saying is it’s a really good time.
Happy birthday, friend!
In unrelated news, you should also go read Jennifer Grey’s Nose, a hilarious, awe-inspiring confession/essay. I never had a door-sized George Michael poster (lucky bitch!) but I did win a contest at Vicki Nelson’s 8th grade slumber party for singing “I Want Your Sex” the best. And maybe there is frosted peach lipstick on a boy’s picture in my yearbook. Maybe.
December 16th, 2005 at 2:08 pm
Looking back on this through my Retro-Spect-9000 Time Machine, I’ll always cherish the day that Sally told the internet about my private parts.
Thanks, Sally. Thanks, internet. You have both fulfilled your ultimate purpose.
December 16th, 2005 at 3:24 pm
That is an astonishing bit of humiliation, there. Personally, I am absolutely against the taking down of the pants in hospital environs, which I have done TWICE this year. It is the un-cool.
December 16th, 2005 at 4:11 pm
Sounds to me like J. Bubba got a little taste of what it’s like to go to the ob-gyn. Sorry about that, dude. Hope you pass those stones soon.
December 16th, 2005 at 4:29 pm
I think it compares, humiliation-wise, to the ob-gyn. I walked past the room with the stirrups, and was like, damn I am glad I do not have to go in there.
People keep comparing it to giving birth: yeah, man, passing a kidney stone is like giving BIRTH, man.
And I’m all: No. Can’t be. Because, this is totally involuntary. People CHOOSE to be pregnant. No one would EVER choose to have pain equivalent to little pointy rocks travel through tubes that are too small for them to travel through — CERTAINLY not before the invention of opioid analgesics. NOBODY. This flies in the face of everything I know about survival of the species.
December 16th, 2005 at 4:42 pm
I think I might rather get up in some stirrups than see my whim-wham (provided I had one) all x-rayed up. I mean, only one person sees what’s happening in the exam room, but it sounded like tens of thousands of people were looking at your whim-wham.
They probably talked about it later, too. “Did you see that guy’s whim-wham? Hee hee” etc.
December 17th, 2005 at 8:27 pm
just because i won’t be able to sleep tonight unless i know, what is your parlance for the opposing genders, errr, stuff…
‘who-hee’ is my educated (?, maybe in a 2nd grade education kinda way) guess, but indulge me, please…
December 19th, 2005 at 11:48 am
Wait – the opposing gender has stuff, too?!
This opens up all SORTS of possibilities I had not previously considered….
I can’t help you with a girl euphemism. Whim-wham is Sally’s word. I just borrowed it to get my e-mail past her spam filter.