Tom is working with his left-hand man, Liam “Casey” O’Brien, in Orono building a spec-house for a Serbian entrepreneur/brew-master friend of ours. I have to stay home in NH as I am being trained to do OB ultrasounds at the health center. Tom and Casey have been staying at Bad Beaver and commuting to Orono every day. They’ve been up there for two weeks now.
Tom calls me late one afternoon and our conversation goes something like this:
T: “Hi honey!”
C: “Hey! How’re doing?”
T: “Oh, I’m OK.”
C: “Just ‘OK’? What are you doing?”
T: “I’m driving back from the doctor’s office.”
C: “The doctor’s office?!? What do you mean ‘the doctor’s office’? You never go to the doctor. What happened?”
T: “Well, it’s a little hard to explain. Actually, it’s kind of embarrassing.”
C: “Try me.”
T: “Well, Casey and I were removing a post that was a support for a porch roof. It came down faster than I anticipated and it had a nail sticking out of the end of it. It came down with a helluva force…the nail ripped through the front of my pants and sliced my penis all the way down the shaft.”
There is dead silence for a moment. I have no words. Who does this?!?
C: “Oh my god! Are you kidding? Are you going to be all right? How serious is it?”
T: “The doctor said he couldn’t stitch it because the skin is too thin. So he just cleaned it up and put a bunch of butterfly bandages on it. He says it’ll heal OK.”
I start to smile. Actually, I am unsuccessfully trying to suppress a belly laugh.
C: “OK…let me get this straight. You just filleted your pecker?”
T: “Yeah, and I asked Casey to help me. He just said, ‘You’re going to die.’”
C: “How many butterflies died for this operation?”
T: “There are about 30 to cover the whole length.”
C: “Ha. Ha. You know, it’s probably a good thing that little chubby stepped up to the plate and took a hit for the team. If it had been to either side, it could’ve sliced your femoral artery—and you’d be dead.”
Then a thought occurs to me.
C: “So, how long did the doctor say you had to keep your hands off it and leave it alone?”
T: “He said a week or so should do it.”
C: “Right. Good luck with that, Mr. Whack Noodle.”
Tom comes home for a break two days later. I look at his poor patched-up penis. It has several butterfly bandages along a long slice.
I can’t help it. “Ewww…Frankenschlong.”
But the very next morning, I swear to god, the boy wakes up and gives me the kooky eye.
I cannot believe it. He is delusional.
“I WILL NOT HAVE BUTTERFLIES IN MY VAGINA!”
Then a week later, he comes home and tries it again. By now the slice has healed into a curve—which looks disturbingly like a Smiley Face.
He says, “Look! He’s happy to see you!”
Coming on Thursday! “The Great Clam Debacle”