Awwww, Nuts!

Every so often, we do things that simply cannot be justified. We tell a pointless lie. We go home with a fatty. We greenlight Yours, Mine, and Ours. We look back on our conscious choice to make that decision, and we cannot for one moment fathom what possessed us to do so. On one fateful night, in the summer of 1986, Michael (the First) and Mary Hartney exemplified this phenomenon to the fullest extent. In fact, I'm currently campaigning to have an unjustifiable decision be, from here on in, referred to as an '86 Hartney. Upon completion of this tale, I think you'll be with me on this.

That night, my parents allowed me to go to the Grizlard's cottage. A quick Grizlard primer: kind of like the crazy family in Running With Scissors, only with less college degrees and more dead kittens disposed of in the garbage can. I suppose if my son begged me to let him go to my born-again next-door neighbors' surely-as-besieged-by-squalor-as-their-house-if-not-more-so cottage enough times, I would eventually cave, even with my knowledge that the patriarch was a disgraced former state assemblyman who statutorily raped and impregnated a teen-ager. Or I wouldn't. Because that would be nuts.

And yet it happened. I was ecstatic. Who cares that I had to sit on the gooey floor of their van for an hour to get there? Or that I had to clear away a pile of scrap paper, food stuffs, and other refuse from the floor of their cottage so that I had somewhere to sleep? Or that Mr. Grizlard liked to wear a bathrobe with no underwear and sit at precarious angles and talk to me? I was in the country with fourteen of my favorite people. And it was going to be awesome.

For quite a bit of time, it was, in fact, awesome. Their cottage was on top of a hill in the sun-drenched upstate New York countryside (I would say it still is, but odds are it has collapsed by now). Not used to "roughing it", I heartily embraced the way of this strange new wild. The next morning, after a breakfast of buttermilk pancakes and real Vermont maple syrup (yes, I ate their cooking), I, with my favorite Grizlard, Gabe, set out down the hill to get into misadventures and scrapes. And did we ever.

At the bottom of the hill, we found a barrel that had been discarded (as you do) and a big plank of wood. Little Rube Goldbergs that we were, we put them together and made what we thought was a kick-ass see-saw. This provided sheer minutes of entertainment, when from the top of the hill, Mrs. Grizlard's enraged shriek echoed through the entire county. "You boys had better get in here now before you're in real trouble!" Ironically, the siren call wasn't even meant for us. She was mad at my least favorite Grizlard, Glenn, and his douchebag friend (also somehow my douchebag friend) Eric, who had gone out without permission. Not knowing this, and thinking we were in for a caning, Gabe and I elected to jump off the see-saw and report to our drill sergeant. That's when it happened.

RRRRRRRIP!

The plank of wood we were sitting on was conspicuously unsanded. I was wearing shorts. Let's see...how can I put this delicately...

I tore my scrotum open.

After the initial tsunami of pain had washed over me, I stuck my hands down my pants. They came back out bloody. Bad news. Especially for a six-year old who was still a little bit afraid of both the moon and a particular painting of John Schneider. I delicately trudged up the hill, hands ready to catch a rogue teste.

I told Mrs. Grizlard what had happened. She demanded she look at the wound. I insisted that she didn't. I was a very private first grader; I didn't even like people seeing my penis when it was in mint condition, let alone a sanguine mess. Thinking it was a matter of gender, she then sent her teen-aged son Warren into the bathroom I had barricaded myself into, as though having some high school freshman look at my goods was a much more inviting prospect. So nobody saw it. Hence, nobody saw how severe an injury this was. So after I had stopped bleeding profusely, I went back out to play. Genius, huh?

Eric's parents came that afternoon, a day early, to pick him up. I was forced to leave with him. Upon entering my house covered in Grizlard brand grime, my mother ordered me into the tub. Let me tell you: a hole in your nut sack hurts enough already. Having said nut sack hit hot water is somewhat akin to someone with a severe sunburn being fucked by an entire human leg with no lube. I made the most of it, though. I tried to distract myself with happy six-year old thoughts, like how the super-powered blond kid in Superman #384 looked just like me, or how much Mrs. Tambacas liked my handwriting, or just how darned funny that Skippy on Family Ties was.

And then my mother walked in.

You know how when you're six, your mother will just walk into the bathroom while you're in the tub and think it's fine? And, if she can't see your exposed testicle, it usually is? And if she can, she says crazy things like, "Michael, we need to go to the hospital right now"? Or is it just me?

On our way to the hospital, I made my mother promise me I wouldn't need stitches. She emphatically assured me that no, I would certainly not need stitches. Imagine both my dismay and the birth of my maternal trust issues when the doctor at the emergency room said "Oh, you're definitely going to need stitches". That lying bitch...

Upon entering the room where the dreaded stitching was to take place, I ordered the small window on the door to be covered up by a piece of paper. No way was some passer-by going to get a peek at my unmentionables. At least, not for free, they weren't. After the Band-Aids had been applied to the paper to make sure it stuck, the real fun began. First, the doctor shoved a novocaine needle the size of Utah into my scrotum, which, at the time, was considerably smaller than the word Utah. Considering all of the pain I went through that day, it's all the more impressive that the injection ranked number one: in fact, it's the most excrutiating pain I've ever experienced. Then the actual stitching began, ranking a close second.

On the car ride home, I remember thinking two very specific things: I fucking hate the Grizlards, and I fucking hate my mother. Though neither ultimately ended up being true, it seemed unfair that, for the next few weeks, peeing would be a ten-minute production while they went unpunished for their near-mortal sins. At least I got the dissolvable stitches. Returning for a second butchering of my nards was unimaginable. For a long time, I could still see the scar. I can't find it anymore.

And for those of you who are curious, everything is in fine working order. Now get your head out of the gutter, pervert.

My parents probably still kick themselves to this day for letting me go off to Camp Mutilation. But I forgive them. After all, I know what it's like to pull an '86 Hartney. I've totally gone home with a fatty or two.