world's most advanced test
famous rejections
Warning: fragmented entry
clueless individual: (taken from a blog) i don't know why he's so angry. Yes, i did sleep with his best friend but that was so long ago...... but i couldn't bring myself to tell him
The Editor speaks:
i'm speaking as a fan of this blog. judging from the direction in which this blog is heading, maybe you should consider changing its name to 'Of Prostitution and Pornos' or something like that. either that, or some other catchy title, even 'nemo me impune lacessit'- which i've absolutely no idea what it means- would be better than the prosaic and altogether straightforward nature of the current title.
[laugh] While i categorically agree with you that 'Of Prostitution and Pornos' would be arresting, and undeniably boost hit rates, it's still an inaccurate reflection of the contents, much as i delve into those issues. The disappointment of casual visitors would also be palpable. even though it isn't rocketing up the blogospheric charts, KynTheMan's is an established brand and commands a certain following. ironically i'd have to admit that my blog is hardly personal and thus doesn't adhere to the title's connotations too well either. There are better blogs to read for confessional gripes and the latest recommendations on what's hip to read and listen to, i.e. whatever the blog author is reading and listening to.
i'd think surfers would be put off by a Latin title, you know Latin conjures images of dreary half-dead professors and musty tomes in catacumbal and sepulchral libraries, not exactly what hip and trendy youngsters would like to associate themselves with. for your benefit and those with similar puzzlement, i'll translate the phrase.
nemo = Nemo, as in the clownfish
me = I
impune = find
lacessit = have to
Voila! permitting some latitude for syntactical incongruence (E.T. home phone. No, E.T. phone home!), the phrase roughly means 'i have to find Nemo'. i know there are some doubters out there about the veracity of the translation... and you guys are right.
Yesterday there was a documentary about Sparta and its resistance of the Persian invasion. the introducing vignette described Leonidas and his men as defenders of Freedom against presumably Oriental despotism and the horrible, evil invaders from the Middle East and Asia Minor. their valiant last stand in the face of overwhelming hordes at Thermopylae, we were told, has inspired Western freedom fighters for the past 2500 years. Marvellous! it makes me sooo proud to be under the aegis of paternal authoritarianism. the battle re-enactment depicted the Persians to be garbed in flowing robes, complete with head-dress; in fact i was half-surprised that a Osama lookalike didn't appear in the programme. well, maybe he did make an appearance along with the former Iraqi dictator, but i unfortunately missed it due to channel-surfing.
to be fair, the programme mentioned a great deal about the helots and Orwellian society, and a little about Thermopylae blown into mythical proportions and taking on connotations that only make sense in 20/20 hindsight. as a digression, while Herodotus may be regarded as the Father of History, i find him less believable and a poorer writer/scholar than Sima Qian, but that could be due to ethnic pride. Still, much of what we know about the distinctly humourless Spartans (imagine a stand-up comedy night in a Spartan bar... hey, tough crowd we have tonight heh) stems from Herodotus's writings. if a myth is to be perpetuated at all, the historical basis had better be solid. it's a dangerous world enough already with all the cowboys roaming around.
it has been a
annus horribilis, see you in the next.
sex offender mugshots... no, you won't find my picture here
Grandma won't be baking
these
it was the biggest shock to me since i learnt Santa was apprehended in a hole near Tikrit when i heard a rumour, corroborated by more than one person, that a friend of mine had 'seen through the red dust' and become a monk. even though he had been saying for the longest time about his yearning for the ascetic, the news nevertheless took some time to sink in. Of course it might still turn out to be a harmless untruth, but seriously deep within our hearts we doubt it. not that there's anything wrong with being a monk; while naturally i can't imagine myself doing so (meatless diet, austerity, celibacy... yeah the celibacy), my friend would adapt wonderfully i'd expect.
i don't have many friends and neither do are my acquaintances legion, not entirely sure that many people would want to know me anyway. but what matters is the range of people one knows, not that the quantity. true to my endearing qualities, i believe most people aren't worth associating with anyway. to reiterate my point, it's who one's acquainted with that makes the difference since we won't know when in the future specialized help would be needed; i know lawyers, doctors, accountants, police officers, even a veterinarian, who would be of great help should i fall sick sometime. now i can add 'monk' to the list. i'm counting on him to give my family a discount when he's employed to perform my last rites should a Buddhist funeral be arranged for me (personally i don't care, just don't leave my body with the stray cats or donate it to medical school. i don't want female students to think that's the average endowment for a Singaporean male and be dreadfully let down on their wedding nights). i've been reliably informed that my time on Earth won't be exceedingly long so this might come sooner than you think. on the other side of the coin, i can proudly claim to be friends with convicted voyeurs, killers (manslaughter charge), VCD pirates and so forth. yet an occupation missing from the laundry list and i believe would be very useful to me is that of pimp. in case you haven't realized, a pimp would be a great guy to know. firstly pimping is enormously lucrative, so treats would be in order. more importantly i might get priorities with his clients and first refusal on fresh goods, subject to economic status. of course i could be a pimp myself but personally social status is rather important, so i'd stick to my day job whatever that may be.
silicone dildos
how do i put this delicately?....
naked Michael Jackson doll in action
in the US,
It's A Wonderful Life is shown on TV as a Christmas tradition. here, we broadcast
Merry Christmas, Mr Bean. no moral judgments here, just an observation. speaking of yuletide traditions, i present...
KynTheMan's History of Fruitcake
Archaeologists have dated the origins of the venerable dessert as far back as ancient Egypt. this conjecture was confirmed when a piece of fruitcake was found within the sarcophagus of Tutankhamen. Astonishingly the said chunk was deemed still edible by food scientists, although the curator of the British Museum declined to taste it during the press conference. some scholars have hypothesized that fruitcake was regarded by the Egyptians as food for the afterlife, which falls perfectly in line with received wisdom about its durability. so durable that huge rectangular pieces were used in the construction of the pyramids as a form of counterweight or piling device.
Pliny the Younger gave a brief mention of fruitcake in his writings. to summarize, it would seem that the reason Cleopatra dumped Caesar for Mark Antony was that the beloved dictator of Rome had the temerity to reject Cleo's homemade fruitrock, and in so doing also rejected a thousand years of Egyptian tradition. Mark Antony did however accept the offer of fruitcake and won the queen's heart in the process. yet it should also be noted this same lack of judgment was to cost Mark his life in the struggle against Octavian. No mention was made about the former's dental health however.
Fruitcake was taken to another level in the Middle Ages when some wiseass came up with the recipe for the quintessential modern fruitcake. Evidently the Crusaders carried fruitcake for their campaigns in the Holy Land. Besides their obvious use as siege ammo, fruitcake is the first recorded bioloigcal weapon (or WMD in comtemporary parlance). in short, the puissance of fruitcake against besieged armies cannot be underestimated for it led directly to the capture of Jerusalem. How this has anything to do with the Christmas tradition of distributing fruitcake to one's enemies cannot be easily established; but what is known is that from then on, the popularity of fruitcake as military ordnance declined.
But obscure historiographical texts have suggested that Britain's intransigence in shipping unwanted loads of fruitcake to the American colonies was the spark that ignited the (mis-named) Revolutionary War. and after America secured her independence, the symbolic significance of fruitcake became immortalized in the way we understand it today --- a symbol of lack of forethought and/or a poisoned chalice. Merry Christmas!
another brick in the sacred institution of marriage crumbles, hardly surprising with the
women we've got
10 ads America won't get to see
the definitive (well, maybe not quite, but there's plenty to read here) collection of
2003 end-of-year lists
but one review they have perhaps unintentionally overlooked:
Dirty Pornos' Best of 2003 --- Johnny Maldoro
TITLE: Grannies, Fatties, Pregnant Bitches & a Midget to Boot (Pure Filth). No midgets were actually booted during the production of this film (the politically incorrect refer to this a "dwarf tossing"), although there were a few times when I thought I might boot.
Pick scene's starlet: N/A.
CONCEPT: "When are men gonna be the bitches?" one bi . . . er, woman strapped with a nine-incher asks. "How the fuck should I know!" her boy answers. Queer Eye for the Straight Guy taken to its logical extreme, Babes Ballin' Boys Volume 10 (Pleasure) stars adorable, apparently gay guys and refreshingly aggressive babes. I must admit that I felt stirrings watching the puckereds getting poked, but that just might've been the burrito I'd had for dinner.
Chloe Devine, wearing Docs and a sky-blue dildo.
TRANSGENDER: Big-Ass She-Male All-Stars (Evil Angel), featuring South American ladies with weenies and pumped-up lips and butts, captures a Brazilian subculture you're not likely to hear about outside of the gender studies department. The male actors don't think they're gay (likewise, few of us acknowledge the homo implications of watching the ubiquitous cumshot, in which studs usually stroke themselves); meanwhile, we barely have the vocabulary to describe what the transgendered peeps identify themselves as—though "chicks with" dicks is clever!
Patricia Arau'jo.
"LESBIAN": Skye Blue thoughtfully directs the best Jenna in porn, Ms. Haze, in the sweet, delightful romp Jenna Loves Girls (Jill Kelly). Teen scenes rarely get more convincing than the one in which two pajama-clad sleepover guests pressure J. to prove that she knows how to give a blowjob. The life-changing tingles I felt watching the carrot scene in Fast Times at Ridgemont High came rushing back and, after a few moments, spurting out.
BUTT SEX: I often use epigrams to take up space and give the impression that I am well-read. I found a doozy—taken from Maldoror, by the Comte de Lautréamont—for my column "Doin' It In the Butt!": "Oh! if instead of being a hell this universe had been but an immense celestial anus—behold the gesture I make, hard by my lower abdomen: yes, I would have plunged my prick through its bloodstained sphincter, smashing the very walls of its pelvis with my impetuous movements!" Call it what you will—anal, bringing the milk in through the back door, putting the tire iron in the trunk, fishin' in Muddy Creek, taking the hot dog out of the steamer and putting it into the bun, making Joe sit in the back of the pickup, poking out the ugly eye, cheap birth control, whatever—but the impetuous movements in Jules Jordan's Ass Worship #3: Bionic Butts (Evil Angel) are best described as ballet. Yep, Jordan directs some high-class stool-pushing. Stink one, pink zero.
Gauge.
BLOWJOB: Though not exclusively a suck-off—a crazed Loni tosses salad, gets tiddy-fugged, and sits on a prick—Glazed and Confused (Elegant Angel) emphasizes outlandish oral. The facial glaze owes not just to groups of milling men, but gloopy spit these deep-throaters produce by the bucketful.
Ashley Blue, Loni.
BUKKAKE: Either American pornographers think cumbaths befit busted washups, or our fresh actresses, though unembarrassed by gang-bangs, find semen-soakings a tad too humiliating. As artful as a flower arrangement, Japanese import Semen Club 2 (Waap Entertainment) shows youthful innocent Yui Kayama getting showered all over, murmuring and crying protests in Japanese—there is no equal in Puritanical psychodrama.
Mini-vibrator orgasm scene.
FETISH: Local arthouse Bleu Visions offers perfect distillations of the fetish world's aesthetic rigor and controlled violence. Black-and-white silent thriller Ladies of the Night (Les Vampyres) follows a short-haired schoolgirl who wanders into the wrong mansion and gets flogged, clamped, slapped, and stepped on by two humorless ladies; The Seven Deadly Sins illustrates the bible's mortal fuckups with a gorgeous maid and her mistress, who laughs (maniacally, not mirthfully) and pees on flowers.
UNAUTHORIZED: The night-vision murky Paris Hilton tape, which my older brother kindly sent me via instant messenger, briefly shows the skinny heiress sucking meathead dick like she's sipping champagne (I prefer ladies who look like they're shotgunning a beer), riding reverse cowgirl, doin' it doggie, and wriggling away to answer her cellie—big whoop. (My ladies call up ex-boyfriends during the deed to tell those boys what they were doing wrong, awwww shit.) Better than the R. Kelly clip, that's all.
INDIE: Joe Gallant, NYC's guerilla scatologist, may never top Bongwater Butt Babes Volume One (Black Mirror). Black Mirror's butt-squirt paintings are great, but what beats a lady ripping bong hits off of her own colon?
Redhead shitter.
DIRTIEST: The year's best porno, Girlvert #3 (JM Productions), takes a cue from bumsploitation phenomenon Bumfights. Sexpot sassmouth Ashley Blue, joined by her real-life boyfriend Trent, trolls America's margins, battling ennui and growing more deliciously naughty with each session of relentless abuse she metes out. If this doesn't win AVN's Best Film, we can be assured that the academy has fallen out of touch.
Homeless girl, coughing up cornflakes.
online slang dictionaries
want a
warm pussy?
Just when we thought local politics was about as staid and predictable as could be, a few implicative photos have burst onto the public limelight; any why weren't we surprised that these belong to an opposition politician.... well not that i'm insinuating that the ruling party has had anything to do with the sordid affair. this promises to pry open a can of worms, much to the merriment of our entertainment-deprived political spectators. while no crime, as far as can be discerned, has been committed, the supervenient inquiries and explanations might be a trifle tedious. for one, it's rather problematic in my opinion to account for and explain away the motives behind photographing one's domestic maid in revealing poses. an inexplicable artistic impulse might be offered as defense, in spite of its implausibility. another might be that our beloved Nominated Member of Parliament has talent-spotted a blossoming fashion model in his maid. that's only slightly less believable. regardless of his clarifying statements, the damage, if any (you never know, our fastidious electorate might like him even more after this episode. it's not everyday one gets a un-squeakly-clean public figure in these parts), has been done. to his wife, i'd like to say: why the fuss? at least the subject of his photographic endeavours isn't male, or a child at that.
a bunch of geeks' rendition of
Beyonce's Crazy in Love video: i don't know whether to laugh or tp cry, all i know is that various fluids are oozing out my facial cavities
Find the vagina
it's the time of the year again; my grades are out. Let's observe a minute's silence for my wretchedly butchered results.
i'm in mourning...
celebrating 100 years of aviation...
looks like you got me now
the gold medal in
queueing at the Alternative Olympics up for grabs; Singapore, the early favourites for the honour, might have met her match
My Recent Adventures in Literature-- just when you never thought i'd write something like this
The Song of Roland: my verdict- it'll never make it big in the Billboard charts. 4000 lines of lyrics might be a little too much to take for our attention-deficient youth. not too sure the melody is altogether catchy either. might work as a rap though, with the violent content to match
yo, yo, come on homies
come on to me baby,
listen to my dope:
Charles the King, our Lord and Sovereign,
Full seven years hath sojourned in Spain,
Conquered the land, and won the western main,
Now no fortress against him doth remain,
No city walls are left for him to gain,
Save Sarraguce, that sits on high mountain, yeah!
Marsile its King, who feareth not God's name,
Mahumet's man, he invokes Apollin's aid,
Nor wards off ills that shall to him attain
oh, oh come on
give him all your loving
RESPECT!
... and it will go on like this for the next 3900+ lines
Death in Venice: our government censors heavy-handedly allusions to homosexuality in local TV, but allows this tale of homoerotic, paedophilic infatuation to pass off as literature? i only read it under the impression that it might be filled with gory details about massacres and the like. one for the dirty uncles prowling the void decks. i'm sticking to
Lolita.
Uncle Vania/The Cherry Orchard: potential conversation initiator for my Russian mail-order bride.
Me: So how do you find Chekhov's plays?
Her (in halting English): Alright, i guess.
Me: Good, let's fuck!
Note: this is strictly a hypothetical situation. in reality, the conversation might run a few lines longer. i call this foreplay.
Ulysses: nah, i'm only pulling your leg. you didn't really think i'd read it, did you?
from the most-watched medical of all time (Goldenballs) to the most-watched dental inspection (Noballs). somebody remarked the latter looked a little like Santa Claus- i maintain my reservations
cows... lots of 'em
the ancient art of
penis reading
it's depressing.
i hardly remember anything i've read. while this is predictably an universal phenomenon, my retention rate, whatever that may be, falls well below Ebbinghaus' learning retention curve, not that i can remember what the experimental values are in the first place (yikes!). putting things in perspective, let's assume hypothetically that my retention rate is 1%, could be in truth slightly higher but this value seems realistic enough to me. this means i'd have to re-read the material a hundred times to fully remember it, and that's presupposing zero degree overlap of learning. worse still, the 1% retained usually involves some lurid/juicy detail. which explains my reputation cos these are the stuff that come straight off the top of my head. right now as i'm typing this, an obscure fact about anal sex among theatre artistes in the Tang Dynasty has popped out from a deep recess in my head. i have no idea where i got that piece of information from and it must have been a long time ago, but it illustrates my point nicely.
link-dumping today...
Fan and Ball
Penguin push
this is strictly to be used for academic research purposes
get a
porn name
UNESCO Red Book of Endangered Languages: Let's preserve and celebrate diversity
test your etiquette awareness
build a snowman
the most
phallic buildings in the world
What is the sound of one hand clapping?
Singapore's status as a global talent nexus has been affirmed by the presence of East European prostitutes plying their respectable trade here; adding variety to the selection of predominantly Southeast Asian ladies and the occasional Japanese/Korean callgirls looking for a little adventure. if your memory serves it might be recalled that i'd once declared my soft spot of East European ladies; well nothing has changed though i'm not suggesting anything here. however you should bear in mind, should such a scenario ever arise, that the fellow that strongly resembles myself with his arm around a Caucasian lady at Orchard Towers is not actually me. But what fuels my self-righteous moral indignation is the fact that some of our men refuse to pay after receiving the relevant services, this is an outrage rivalling that of rape. not paying for a meal may be forgivable, but not paying for sexual services constitutes sin of the very vilest sort (if you think this somehow relates to evolutionary psychology, you might have a point) it is the sacrosanct duty of citizens of our country to make the foreign talent feel at home and ensure that we leave a favourable impression; afterall who knows one day they might decide to return as full-fledged holiday tourists.
personality tests that have at least some reference to academic psychology
holiday snowglobe
A true porn clerk story
A guy came up to the counter a few days ago and asked me if "Tae Bo" was in.
I explained that we don't carry exercise videos and he said no, no we had it - he'd seen the box downstairs. Downstairs is, of course, the porn section.
A lot of porn movies do ape titles - "David Cop-a-Feel" was my all-time favorite - but not as many as you'd think. Most follow a pattern: (A) B N, where A is the race of the participants (optional), B is the sex act or kink - sometimes this gets astonishingly specific - and N is the number of the series. Thus you get "Blow Bang 25" or "Asian All-Anal Action 15". The "Little White Chicks, Big Black Monster Dicks" (note intriguing combination of race and fetish) series has some of the most offensive cover art I've ever seen, not because of the sexual content but because it's incredibly racist. The little white chicks look at you demurely over their shoulders while surrounded by scowling African-American men. The men are repeatedly referred to as "monsters" ("monster dicks" itself doesn't bother me because it merely implies that said dicks are monstrously large, but referring to men themselves as monsters is another story) and their faces are actually mounted on cartoon animal bodies. There's no way in hell you could put that cover on, say, a book and not get your store burnt down, and perhaps rightly so. But my well-meaning liberalism can pretty much go screw itself, as the series is cheerfully (and heavily) rented by all races.
Anyway, Tae Bo. I can't find it in the computer, but that's not unusual - deliberate misspellings are common in porn. That, plus the inevitable similarity of titles makes it a real pain in the ass to look things up. Does the customer want Black Ball, Blackball, Black Balled, Blackballed, Black Balls, Blackballs, Black Ballers, BlackBallers, Black Ballz, Blackballz, Black Ballerz, or BlackBallerz? And does he want the one in the gay section or the one in the straight section?
But I keep looking. The Zen lesson of my job is this: just because I do not want to be a video clerk doesn't mean I shouldn't be the best possible video clerk I can be. There's no way to just pop up a partial alphabetical list of titles, so you have to pick a likely starting point and then flip through entry after entry.
"It was a weird spelling, right?" I say, still typing in variations on "Tae Bo" as fast as I can think of them.
"Yes," he says "It was spelled weird."
"Do you remember it?"
Yes, he does: T-A-B-O-O
Holocaust: The Untold Story
Lord of the Badgers
if our comedies/comics on terrestrial television can garner prestigious international media awards, the collective funny bone of the judging panel ought to be amputated. i wish they would stop the nauseating self-congratulation. please,
World's Wildest Police Videos is funnier than our wretchedly-written sitcoms passing themselves off as comedies. i'm not even considering the possibility that the competition might be even more painful to watch; well maybe a photo finish in the godamnawful stakes is plausible, but unlikely to be a notch lower cos that's theoretically impossible given the comedic nadir we've proudly attained.
Someone complained in the Straits Times forum about medical doctors carrying their stethoscopes wherever they went, even to the toilet. perfectly understandable if you ask me; ever heard of symbolic interactionism? besides what would we expect doctors to carry with them ubiquitously anyway, sphygmomanometers?
Self-circumcision diary --- Gregory Bernath
I once chopped pieces of foreskin off my penis with a pair of cuticle scissors.
Now that I've got your attention, I'll go back and tell the whole story. Apologies if it gets a little lengthy, but this yarn deserves to be spun well.
Background
After I was circumcised as an infant, the wound was not taken care of with sufficient diligence, and it healed incorrectly. Portions of the raw edge of the remaining foreskin bonded to the glans, a little bit above the lower edge of the glans. This left a series of "skin bridges", basically sections of foreskin which can't be retracted, because they are fused to the glans at one end and the shaft at the other. These varied in width from about 1/16" to 1/4", and were attached off and on over about 2/3 of the circumference.
This was never a major problem. It was a long time before I even realized it was abnormal. Everything functioned properly, but there were a few minor problems with it which made me wish I could fix it. Mainly,
It was a cosmetic defect -- it didn't look good.
It was tough to keep clean under the bridges -- I had to swab it with a Q-tip now and then to knock down smegma buildup.
Some of the most sensitive parts of the glans were hidden under relatively insensitive chunks of foreskin, robbing me of the proper stimulation which was mine and every man's birthright.
Over the past few years, I'd been thinking of getting it corrected, but there were problems. Doctors cost money, and I didn't have it, and student insurance sure wasn't gonna cover it. Plus, the thought of some strange doctor chopping at my peepeehead gives me chills.
Now, all a doctor would do it sterilize it, numb it, cut it and bandage it. "Hell, maybe I can do that!", I thought. The problem was how to kill the pain. I experimented with cutting myself (with an X-acto knife), but seeing as it always hurt like hell before I even cut anything, I never went through with it.
Recently, I came back and studied the situation. Again, the problem with the self-surgery approach was dealing with pain. There had to be some way of numbing the area, but how? One winter day, it hit me. If cold can make fingers go numb, then cold can also make a ManTooltm go numb. With this in mind, I pioneered a the "home penile self-surgery procedure".
Surgery kit
Cuticle scissors (1 pair)
Rubbing alcohol (1 bottle)
Antibiotic ointment (1 tube)
Anti-bacterial soap (1 bottle)
Gauze pads (lots, various sizes)
Ice cubes (iodine added to water for sterility)
Clean Washcloth (freshly laundered with lots'o bleach)
Well-lit work area (the kitchen table)
Procedure
Wipe down work area with alcohol. Clean penis with soap and water, then with alcohol. Wash hands thoroughly. Soak scissors in alcohol.
Holding the ice cube with the washcloth (to prevent your fingers from going numb), apply the ice cube to the target area. Hold for 5 to 10 minutes, until area is numb.
Using the cuticle scissors, sever the skin bridge as closely as possible to its connection with the glans. Then sever the foreskin end of the bridge in such a location as to leave an even edge on the foreskin.
Use gauze pads and direct pressure to stop the bleeding, then apply antibiotic ointment and bandage.
The operations
Though the operations are not painful if done correctly, the healing process is a real pain in the ass. It also takes a certain state of mind to be able to cut your own flesh. I would kind of put myself into robo-man zombie mode for the operations, in that I never dwelled on what I was doing, I just mechanically plodded through all the steps without thinking about how totally gross it was.
Since the ice cube could only numb a small portion of the penis, and since I could only tolerate so much trauma to my dick in one session, it took 6 separate operations, spread out over a two week period, to cut/remove all of the skin bridges.
Operation #1 (Day 1)
The test cut. I chose a small thin skin bridge, about 1/16" across. I held the ice cube on for 5 minutes. The ice caused a peculiar kind of "cold ache", but it wasn't that bad. I gingerly made the cuts, and sliced through with no pain at all. There was some minor bleeding, but because of the speed at which I worked, I had finished and had the gauze on it before the wound had any chance to bleed significantly. After about 10 minutes the bleeding was stopped and I bandaged it up, no problem at all. Only a tiny little speck of flesh had been removed, rather unimpressive looking.
Operation #2 (Day 3)
Operation #1 turned out so well, I decided to go for big game this time. The target was the mother of all skin bridges, about 1/4" across and very thick and meaty. Again, I made the preparations and applied ice for 5 minutes.
I made the first cut along the glans, and was surprised at how much I had to bear down on the scissors. This skin was surprisingly tough. I finished that cut, and then turned my attention to the cut on the foreskin side. Wanting to get it done quickly, I decided that two large, powerful snips should do the job. I bore down and made the first cut, and realized with a shock that it hurt like hell.
Well, it turns out that due to the thickness of the skin bridge on that end, the cold hadn't penetrated deeply enough, and it hadn't gone numb. So, I was left with a problem. I had a half severed bit of foreskin hanging off me, and no anesthetic. My only recourse was to finish the cut. I thought, "Shit. This will hurt". So I lined up the scissors, closed my eyes, and as quickly and powerfully as I could, I made the snip. My prediction was correct; it did hurt (don't you hate when you're right about things like that?). I managed to avoid shouting out, instead opting for a few simple gasps and whimpers.
I resolved to hold the ice on for much longer in future operations.
Being that this was a bigger cut than the first, it bled much more profusely. It took about 20 minutes of direct pressure and a lot of gauze until I could staunch the main flow. Even then it kept oozing blood for a few hours. I spent the rest of the evening with nothing on below the waist, sitting in front of the TV with a few brews (this became standard procedure for all forthcoming operations). Any motion tended to make it break open and bleed again, so I moved around very little. I was functioning (that is, walking) almost normally again by the next day, but it took about 5 days before this one completely stopped oozing blood.
As I gingerly hobbled back into the kitchen for another brew, I spotted IT, the severed hunk-o-foreskin that I had left on the table. It was of fairly good size, about 1/2" by 1/4" and maybe as thick as a piece of bacon. Suddenly, strange thoughts entered my skull, and a raging mental battle between good and evil ensued.
Evil: "Eat the foreskin."
Good: "Don't do it!! That's gross!!"
Evil: "Eat the foreskin."
Good: "Stop thinking about it!!"
Evil: "You know what you must do. Eat it. It is your destiny."
Good: "But that's cannibalism!"
Evil: "So what?"
Good: "Cannibalism is shunned for a reason! It spreads diseases!"
Evil: "Look dipshit. It's your own fucking flesh. Any diseases in there, you already got."
Good: "But it's self-cannibalism!"
Evil: "So is chewing on the piece of skin you bit off your fingertip. BFD."
Good: "But this is weird, deranged and perverted!"
Evil: "Exactly."
Good hauls its sorry whupped ass away and shuts up.
So, I ate it. Turns out it was very tough and chewy, kind of like biting a little piece of rubber. I chewed for about 5 minutes, but didn't make any progress on breaking it down, so I swallowed it. It had a little bit of blood flavor at first, but after that it had no flavor at all; rather disappointing in that respect. Maybe I should have cooked it.
Operation #3 (Day 10)
A medium sized cut. I held the ice cube on much longer (10 minutes instead of 5), so there was no problem with pain. Not nearly as much bleeding, but still a respectable amount.
A word about erections: they were a bad thing. Any hard-on would tear the wounds open and start them bleeding again. This would be a problem for about 3 or 4 days until the wounds had healed sufficiently. Basically, I had to spend a long, long time without even thinking a nasty thought. Of course, when I was asleep I had no control over the process, which would always result in me waking up with a dick that hurt and bloody bandages. I was really lovin' life at moments like these.
Operation #4 (Day 12)
Another medium sized cut, but with the added bonus of having a small vein (about 1 mm in diameter) running through the skin bridge. Now, the blood supply for the penis mainly runs through blood vessels buried deep inside. When you get down the the small vessels, the circulatory system becomes more of a spiderweb, with redundant paths going to every point. So I knew it wasn't actually dangerous to cut it, but it was still a kind of psychological obstacle. I expected this one to be a heavy bleeder, and I wasn't disappointed. It took about a full hour of direct pressure to get the severed ends of the vein to close up. Otherwise, not too much of a problem.
Operation #5 (Day 14)
I was planning on more time to let the others heal, but due to changes in the way skin tension was being applied to the remaining bridges (because I'd cut some others away), one small bridge was getting a lot of stress and starting to hurt. So I chopped it quick and easy, no real problems.
Operation #6 (Day 15)
The problem with operation #5 was that it just transferred the stress to the next bridge down the line. So even though I had about 3/4" of flesh left to cut, I resolved to do it all at once in one last cutting frenzy.
Due to the size of the operation, it took a while to complete (maybe 1 minute total), which gave the blood a chance to flow. I had to stop a few times and wipe away blood so I could see what I was doing. Strangely, this didn't bother me at all. It seemed perfectly normal that I should be wiping up copious amounts of blood flowing from my bleeding pecker which I had sliced open myself. Actually, it seemed kind of cool at the time, which led me to speculate at the time that I had gone insane, which I also thought was pretty cool.
Anyway, except for the excess blood which had dripped on to the chair, it went quite well. The only thing that really grossed me out was when I noticed I had blood all over my hands. If any psychoanalysts want to analyze that tidbit for me, feel free, though I really don't care.
The wounds are now completely healed, and the results are good. Mainly:
There are no scars to speak of, just a few bumps on the glans. This is because I didn't trim the flesh quite close enough in a few spots. They kind of resembling little warts. I thought about going back and trimming them off, but I kind of like 'em now. After all, it's not everyone who has the privilege of appearing to have warts, with actually being diseased.
Without the skin tension holding things back, total dick length has increased by 1/4". (Of course I've measured the length of my dick. Like you haven't?)
It's a great topic for dinnertime conversation. Women generally seem to find it quite interesting. Men generally turn kind of pale.
With my newfound surgical skills, I've been contemplating a few more self-surgical procedures. You know, mole removal, wart removal, nose jobs, the whole vista of cosmetic surgery. I'll need some help for that mole on my back, which means training an assistant. Ah, the future looks interesting indeed...
the world is changing beyond recognition
keep your
HandzOff
revolutionary application for medical personnel
create your very own
Picasso and
Jackson Pollock painting
yes i'm finally back to the commodious comforts of my own home.
A few days ago i found myself sitting in a pub in the middle of nowhere (abroad) in the middle of the night. the unrelenting beat of a nearby disco served as an aural backdrop while my concentration occasionally drifted toward the conversation at the table behind mine. two working-class middle-aged guys were trying to persuade a beer promoter to re-evaluate her moral system. she was putting up quite a struggle to assert her internalized values but evidently those blokes had some experience in these sort of affairs, and i felt it was only a matter of time before she cracked. But i didn't stay long enough to witness the outcome.
the same night a guy came up to me asking if i wanted some roast meat. i'd had a hearty dinner and wasn't hungry at that time, so i politely rejected him. not many pubs i know have such dishes on their menus, so it was kinda weird. an hour later another guy, but evidently from the same establishment, approached my table enquiring if i'd like to order a little bird. to me that meant two things: either he asked if i wanted some roast poultry or if i'd like to own a pet bird of some sort, maybe a budgerigar or canary. well i still wasn't hungry then and rearing animals wasn't on my list of priorities, not to mention my lack of experience with pets. again the request was turned down. some time later a van with, i assume, the feathered creatures arrived, and some of the guys left to collect their newly-acquired pets. what a novelty, a pub which doubles as a pet shop.
