A part of the What’s Up With Stuff series.
After that last post regarding a certain day made for memorialization, the Robot Butt Psych Unit sent me an e-mail. I was to report to “sensitivity” training, or what I will now refer to as “make you act like your sissy-bag interns” training.
They want to make us an army of Tanners. I’ve already attended my first anger management class, and for my first assignment, I’m supposed to share something about myself. Share a weak moment that I wouldn’t want exposed.
I want to share with you the story of my kidnapping experience while on location covering the first Gulf War. I want to share why I can’t hear that too-loud song that talks about balls and the sweat that drops down them.
I was in the middle of my middle ages, that time when a man is most like a fine wine – right before he turns to vinegar. Saddam had pulled out of Kuwait and we were at a local bar celebrating the fact that soon enough, we’d be on a cargo plane back to Amsterdam, to smoke some of those left-handed cigarettes they’ve become so known for.
After my eleventh cowboy cocktail (bourbon and milk), the sand outside mixed with the wood paneling inside, and I had a signature “Rex Drop.” That’s when I have ten cocktails too quickly and my body wants to lay down. The interns around here know what’s coming when Rex’s hand lingers a little too long on their shoulders.
When I woke up, the first thing I noticed was the scrotum-clinging sweat, where no matter how far you spread your legs, you’re still doing a full-on wingspan with your scrotum. The next thing to cross my now annoyed mind was the gag in my mouth, the blindfold on my eyes and the shackles around my extremities. This wasn’t the first time this happened. I lived through the seventies. This was just the first time I’d awoken like this in a developing country.
“You must feel the sweat dripping down your brow, Mr. Forsight,” a garbled voice whispered in my ear. “You can only imagine how much sweat happens to be dripping down my sack.”
I tried yelling out that I can most certainly empathize, as there happened to be a lot of sweat dripping down my sack as well, but nothing made it through the gag.
“We will get the information out of you using a modified water torture technique. I’m quite hydrated, so there will be a lot of sweat dripping down these berries.”
I knew where this was going. Great – more bodily fluids on my face. I could feel the voice coming closer, and felt legs straddle my shoulders. As the first bead fell on my already wet brow, I yelled out a muffled scream yet again.
Just as the ball sweat grew to be too much for any one person to take, the blindfold was ripped off my face.
“Got you, you old so-and-so!” said the person in the room with me, his voice now discernible. I looked up to see the laughing face of my old journalist pal, Sam Menendez! He patted me on the back, took the gag out of my mouth and unshackled me. He was always such a kidder.
So now when you toddlers with driver’s licenses go out and dance nostalgically to that song from the nineties, I just sit here and think of my good friend, Sam. Is this enough sharing, Robot Butt quacks?