Interlude with…’the boys’.

Traffic piled up fast. The 60 mph freeway suddenly shutdown. From flying and free to maximum braking to a standing stop in mere seconds.

Such is the nature of Dallas traffic. It happens so much that as long as everybody survives, it’s seldom remarkable.

This time however, other factors came into play. Serious factors.

A quick stop. A section of highway banked for turning at speed. A clumsy planting of my left foot. A tilting of the bike to the right. Sliding forward on the seat. An unfortunately ill-fitting pair of “tighty-whiteys”.

Yes, the unspeakable happened. “The boys” escaped. Then, having not thought through their clever plan, they promptly got squashed.

Simultaneously free of their safe confines yet restricted in the distance they can travel by my jeans and their…well…attachment, the small bits of trouble-making biology only managed to get far enough that the sliding forward on the seat put them in perfect position for a flesh bruising crush. The recoil as I levitated off the seat on what I am sure were the visible waves of pain only succeeded in clamping the boys firmly between the elastic of the traitorous underwear and my inner thigh, where they continued to suffer severe trauma with every slight movement. Had I still been moving at highway speed I’d have probably leaped off the bike hoping for a quick demise.

For the fairer sex that may be reading (yes, there are some), yes, we are talking about the male ‘dangly bits’…those sensitive parts that make us ‘pointers’ instead of setters and are responsible for pretty much all our male decision making that doesn’t involve alcohol or power tools.

They are not something we normally talk about in polite company. In fact, we (males) normally don’t discuss them at all. When we become aware another male has suffered “impact” to that zone, we either become contemplative and depressed, or we guffaw to cover our gasping in shared pain. We all, to a man, unconsciously cross our legs or otherwise “cover up” when witnessing that particular pain, and then we usually shift the subject to something like hockey scores despite the fact that none of us has been to or seen a hockey game in months…or ever. We may shrug off a chainsaw to the chest (hey, it’s only a flesh wound) but that is a pain we all know and try to avoid.

And make no mistake, pain it is. There’s not one greater a male can suffer. We’d watch the world and everything in it burn to avoid that pain.

So, if we never talk about it, why here? Why now?

It serves to explain…circumstances. Yeah. That’s it. With all the cell phone cameras in the world today, an explanation may yet become necessary.

Context is important, and perhaps the above graphic details may help to explain how I came to be parked on the freeway, surrounded by hundreds of cages and all their passengers, gasping and with arm down in my waistband, frantically digging around in my jeans with one hand (while trying to hold the bike up with the other).

Re-positioning…was paramount…preferably before the waves of pain had me puking in my helmet, levitating clear off the freeway, or crawling under the nearest 18-wheeler, curling into a fetal position, and begging the driver to run over me. Re-positioning HAD to happen. No other action was possible.

I had just about achieved the redeployment…just decided I might live, when I looked to my right…to see the cop car stuck in traffic beside me…and the cop looking directly at me. He did not look happy. He put his car in neutral. This is generally a precursor to bad things.

Screw it. He could shoot me if he wanted. At least that would relieve the pain. I ignored him and completed the “correction.” I then took several deep breaths, trying to avoid barfing and to mitigate the dizziness brought on by the pain…and the sudden cessation of it.

I jerked my hand out of my pants, acutely aware that the sheer relief evident on my face probably looked “indecent” given the current circumstances.

I looked back at the cop. He mouthed, “What the fu..?”

I held up my right hand, palm up in a cupping motion, and then slowly closed my fingers in a crushing motion until I had a fist, hoping he would understand the implication. Just for good measure I added a “twist” at the end.

He understood alright. He looked horrified. I’m sure he crossed his legs. His partner put his hands in his lap and looked away. The first cop then faced forward and ignored me until the traffic moved again.

Yep, he got the message.

So, dear readers, when the pictures from any one of the hundreds of witnesses to this event begin to show up, perhaps on funniest home videos or such, please remember the context…and get me my share of the prize money.

As to the moral of this sordid tale? It’s a simple one:

AHHHaaaFFriggen OUCH!

CUAgain,
Daniel Meyer

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One Response to Interlude with…’the boys’.

  1. Chuck says:

    This may well make the rounds of DPD locker room lore, along with a certain “squirrel grenade” episode…

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