Man Bits

There I stood, a pair of shrink to fit  faded-blue-sexy Levis in hand.  Hoping I could get them on, even if only part of the way.  I remembered how good they felt on my body many pounds ago. In my heart, I knew they wouldn’t fit, but that wasn’t the point.  I wanted to see how far I could get them up.  Since starting my weight loss journey on the Atkins diet plan, I had dropped several pants sizes already.  I started in a forty-two.  Now, with a pair of thirty-six in hand,  I was about to begin such a horrific ordeal that when I think of  it my teeth begin to quiver.

To my astonishment, the jeans went over my calves and thighs like butter.  But when it came to getting them up over my derriere, I could see it wasn’t happening.

I don’t know if it was at this moment or much later in my ordeal that the rational-analytical side of my brain decided to head south for the winter, but I believe it was definitely packing its bags.

I came up with the brilliant idea that if I took my skivvies off I could get those jeans up that much further.  It was even possible that I might get them zipped.  So, there I stood in all my nakedness contemplating the great feat ahead of me.  Smiling, I pulled on the jeans, got them up once again past my calves, thighs, and rump. I gave a slight bend to my knees, grabbed my zipper, and heaved as I gave a little jump.

For a quick moment, I felt a sense of joy as the zipper made its way up towards its final destination.  The joy quickly faded as I sensed something terribly wrong.  I thought I had sheered an acre of grassland from the land down under.  But, as quickly as that thought entered the realm of possibility, it vanished.  I felt shards of glass penetrate my mind, and with a flash of light, I found myself mysteriously hovering six inches from the smoke stained ceiling that was desperately in need of a fresh coat of paint.

Looking down, I saw a familiar face, but it wasn’t me-it was someone who looked like me.  This impostor was kneeling as if in prayer as tears streamed down his cheeks.  Then, I noticed he wasn’t praying.  He was in pain.  He had gotten his man bits caught in the zipper of death.

I’m glad that isn’t me, I thought.  And with a whoosh and a tug, I found myself back in my body.  The pain ripped through my body as pulses of electric fire tore through my flesh.  I screamed the scream of death, that I was sure would bring the cops to my door.

If you have never felt this kind of pain, imagine that you have slammed the tiniest bit of flesh from the tip of your tongue in a car door and locked the keys inside. Can you imagine it? Good.

I carefully raised myself from the floor, hobbled from the bedroom, to the bathroom, and finally into the kitchen where I would have more light.  Somehow, I had gotten the zipper up about one inch free and clear, but the next inch and a half was mangled flesh, with another inch of free and clear.

My flesh pulsed, looking like matted meat caught in the teeth of a cheese grater.  It began to swell, turning shades of purple unlike that which I had ever seen before. It was the shade of purple that all other purples strive to become.

As I sat there dumb founded, in agony, and wondering what to do, I knew the analytical rational side of my brain had bailed on me.  It grabbed its bags, hopped on a plane, and was now sipping margaritas somewhere in the Bahamas.  Leaving the creative side of my brain to get out of the predicament I was in.

I knew I couldn’t just yank it.  This would only add to the horror of it all.

As I wiped the tears from my blotched face, I had a stroke of genius.  If I put ice on it, I would be able to shrink the flesh and my bits and pieces would pop right out—or so I thought.  I got a bag of ice, and as I sat there playing Snow Miser I realized that this tactic wasn’t going to work, the only thing I was doing was freezing my nads off.

That’s when I was inspired with an alternate solution—a better solution, one in which I knew would work.  Butter!

If I slathered butter into the crevices of the zipper, my now frozen blue marbles would slip freely out.  But, the butter I had was too hard for this, so the creative side of me decided it would be a good idea to warm it up in the microwave for thirty seconds. Not the brightest of ideas.   After it was good and melted, I poured it onto my crotch without hesitation.

Note:  Fifteen seconds is all the time you need to melt a pat of butter.

After the pain burned through my flesh and subdued a bit, a strange warm sensation overtook me.  This felt kind of good—a bit of much needed relief.  Ahhhh

I drew in a deep breath, relaxed, and decided it was time.    I tried grabbing the zipper so I could start my journey to freedom, but my hands were too slippery.  Luckily, I had a pair of pliers I had left on my computer desk after my last horrific adventure.  I grabbed my bits, clutched the zipper with the pliers, and with one mighty yank I…chickened out.

This isn’t going to work, I thought.  That’s when I noticed a can of WD-40 on my desk.  I knew that WD-40 had a thousand and one uses.  One of which was loosening stuck zippers.  It said so on the can. I gave the can a good shake and added a sprit to my already buttered manhood.

As a cautionary note to the reader, just because WD-40 does not state on the warning label, “do not spray on bits and pieces,” it does not mean that you should.

As the butter and oil began to mingle together, I got a burning sensation that I can only equate to that of fire ants eating away at dead flesh.  Once again, tears began to trickle down my face as I winced in pain.

“What have I done, what have I done, what have I done,” I screamed, as I did a little jig to the rhythm of my pain.

Now I was frantic.  The flesh had doubled in size in fifteen minutes, and turned black.  I was afraid I was going to lose a very important part of me.  I knew I had to hurry.  It was now or never.  I grabbed the pliers, grabbed what I could of my flesh, and said a quick prayer to God for mercy.  I bent my knees, clinched my teeth, and as I started to make my move I felt something happening, and through the grace of the almighty above, my zipper parted like the red sea.  I was free.

In a sigh of relief, I praised the lord, pulled off the jeans as quickly as I could and threw them in the trash.  Hoping no one in the house would find the evidence of what I had done.

I still wasn’t out of the woods.  I had to stop the bleeding, and clean the wound to keep infection at bay.  As I gently scrubbed my man bits in the sink, a strange odor wafted through the air.  I smell like Martha Stewarts one hour oil change plus, I thought.  The butter and oil wasn’t coming off as easily as I had hoped, and all the scrubbing was making things worst.  I gave up, grabbed some ointment, adding it to the strange fragrant concoction I had created.  I looked for a band-aid, but I had none, so I grabbed some toilet paper and wrapped my wound, using electrical tape to hold it all in place.

I need to get this looked at, I thought.  But as I reached for the phone, I hesitated.  How am I going to explain this to the Doctor I asked myself.  That’s when I heard my wife open the door.

“Honey, I’m home.”


Terry (whyguy)

BTW:  WD-40 only has a thousand uses, not a thousand and one.


16 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. patee
    Mar 30, 2009 @ 17:41:06

    Huh, no comment! Other then…. try on a pair of thirty-eights, and be behind the eight-ball. No pun intended!


    • whyguy
      Mar 30, 2009 @ 17:51:33

      Well, I’m getting close to those 36’s, so when the time is right I’ll be trying this again. Just not commando style next time. LOL


  2. Baylor
    Mar 30, 2009 @ 16:07:11

    Terry.. An insightful What not to do for men everywhere. Somehow this makes me happy to be a girl!

    Glad you have recovered.


  3. Davis
    Mar 30, 2009 @ 15:34:20

    Every time I try on my 40’s, I feel like a ref measuring for the first down. Will I make it today or not? Very discouraging


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