Underpants On The Outside

There are certain dates of such personal importance that I will remember them every year for the rest of my life. I was married on October 11th. My brother’s birthday is the 21st of October.  My wife’s birthday is somewhere around April-ish.Well, now I have a new day that will always hold a place in my heart: December 21^st, THE DAY I WON MY FANTASY FOOTBALL LEAGUE.

From an objective standpoint, I shouldn’t like playing fantasy football: I spend four months being nervous; on Sundays I am unavailable emotionally, physically and intellectually (not everyone considers this to be a bad thing), and the amount of time I spend performing “research ” could be dangerous for my career.  Each week, winning brings me no joy, just relief, while losing makes me despondent.  And at the end of the road, the grand prize is $180.  Nothing to sneeze at, of course, but if you break it down to an hourly rate it’s on par with most small-market lemonade stands.

But I won.  I. WON.

Do you know what this means???  It means I know a lot about football.  Like, Vince Lombardi, Mike Shula, Mike Ditka… Z. It also means I am a better human being than my friends. Case closed. QED.

See, fantasy football isn’t just about football – it’s a measure of integrity, leadership, moxie and most importantly, penis size.  Ultimately, it’s about one winner (with a big dick) surrounded by a whole bunch of losers.

Speaking of the losers, I’d like to take some time and recognize a few of them.  First of all, I couldn’t have done it without Roommate Mary.  Our draft was scheduled for the same weekend as my bachelor party, and while I was in Vegas testing the limits of acceptable pre-marital depravity, Mary stepped up and drafted me a team full of winners.  I only wish that her own team could have fared better.*

Next, I’d like to thank our league commissioner, but I’m not going to until I get my winnings.   Bitch better have my money…

Lastly, I want to thank D, the owner of the team I faced for the championship.  No, I’m not going to thank him for losing – I’m not THAT much of an asshole. I want to thank him for being cool.  Let me explain:

Every season, the first thing I get all stressed about is what to name my team.  Just before the first game, I noticed that D had named his team Papi Del Sol (referring to his son, Solomon) so I thought it’d be funny to name my team “Solomon’s Real Dad.”

I knew we’d all get a laugh over it, but D is from Long Island.  (Side note: People there call it “The Island”, which was very confusing to me, as there is another island really close by that is arguably a bit more important.  Y’know the one… MANHATTAN.) They’re weird about respect on “The Island.”  I wasn’t alone in expecting that D would call me up soon after and say “Hey – a joke is a joke, but your team name implies you humped my wife; take it down.”  I would have complied, of course, because he is my friend.  He also used to play lacrosse, which means you can hit him with a stick and he won’t stop whatever he’s doing.

To our surprise, D was a good sport about it all season long, allowing fate to bring us the poetic Super Bowl of Papi Del Sol vs. Solomon’s Real Dad.   The Commish aptly titled the game “The Paternity Test.”  Did I mention I won?

When the kid is about five or six years old I’m going to start sending him a card every year for his birthday.  I’ll say things like, “Went to a Padres game this week.  It made me sad – I always dreamed of taking my son to ball games.”  Inside will be $10, and I’ll sign it, “Your Real Dad.”

And D will punch me in the face.

*Though not better than my own.

About two weeks ago, I had an operation to repair a hernia in my belly.  Technically, these were “sports hernias,” though given my sedentary lifestyle, I was reminded of a line by the late, great Mitch Hedberg (I’m paraphrasing): “If I ever got athlete’s foot, my first reaction would be, ‘those aren’t my feet.’”

In the grand scheme of things, a hernia operation is a minor procedure.  The anatomical equivalent of an oil change.  Three tiny holes, bada-bing-bada-boom, and you go home that same night.  What I seemed to have forgotten is that any time “bada-bing-bada-boom” is happening in your body and it’s not within the boundaries of previously approved orifices, your body assumes something has gone terribly, terribly wrong.

The fun started as I was waking up. I was dimly aware that the doctors were wrapping things up, but there still seemed to be a bunch of tubes in my face and torso.  I didn’t want the doctors to forget them there – medical equipment is so expensive, after all – so I thought I’d lend a helping hand and wrench them out violently.  The doctors held me down and assured me they were still using those, thanks.  I apologized, explained that I’m not a morning person, and demanded an IV of 50 cc’s of coffee, stat.  That joke would have killed if I hadn’t unwisely decided to tell it in Portuguese, especially since I don’t speak Portuguese.

After a brief commercial break in consciousness, I found myself lying a recovery room with various beeping machines hooked up to me. Wonder Woman came in to see that I was okay and to tell me that she’d be waiting for me when I was more awake, and I tried to tell her how much I love and appreciate her without using consonants.  Then I thought I’d pass out for a little while longer, except as I started to drift off, the machine to my left, which had been chirping away happily, started to make an insistent sort of “bong” noise.  No need for concern, so long as I had never seen an episode of ER, Grey’s Anatomy, House, Scrubs, Chicago Hope or M.A.S.H. Unfortunately I have; that’s how I knew I was about to die.

The fear of imminent death perked me up a bit, and just as suddenly as it began, the machine to my left went back to making happy little meeps.  Sweet, but when I started to nod off a second time, it started clanging again.  Whatever it was, that machine didn’t seem to think it was wise for me to go to sleep.

A cute nurse came by.  I slurred at her, and she assured me that things were fine.  Then I asked her what the machine was.  She said it measured the oxygen in my blood, and suggested that I remember to keep breathing.  I let her know that usually I’m much better at remembering to do that.

On one hand, I was heavily sedated.  On the other, the evidence suggested that if I slept, I’d stop breathing and presumably die.  That’s a fun way to spend a couple hours.

I won’t bore you with all of the details; for the most part the recovery went as you’d expect.  There’s really only been one little wrinkle, and while the doctor warned me this might happen, I really wish I’d paid more attention.

It seems that hernia surgeries – like anytime someone takes a knife and starts fucking around in your abdomen – cause  bleeding. Because of the miracles of laproscopic surgery, this bleeding all happens on the inside of your body, so when you stand up, gravity causes the blood to drip down into a nearby vessel, where it basically starts to behave just like a bruise.

Oh – did I mention that vessel is your scrotum?

For the past two weeks, my nuts have been one gigantic (THAT’S RIGHT, GIGANTIC) bruise.  I’m talking about hues of black and purple that are beautiful in a sunset but downright terrifying on a reproductive organ. I looked like I had withheld some very critical information from Jack Bauer.

When the doctor warned me this might happen, I thought it’d be funny.  I mean, my gnards would LOOK really bruised, but it’s not like they’d actually feel bruised, right? …. right?  WRONG.  They hurt when they swung.  They hurt when they bounced.  They hurt when I sat down and they hurt when I stood up.  Apparently, my gnards are sissies who flip out at the sight of blood, so when it came pouring down from on high like at the end of Carrie, my boys sent up an alarm the only way they know how: pain.  Good times, had by all.

Thankfully, the trauma is behind me now and I feel terrific.  Big props go to Wonder Woman, who was, well, wonderful as she helped me recover.  The recovery was more than I bargained for, but if there’s an upside, it’s that for the next few months I can consider jerking off to be “rehab.”