Cafeoutdoors.com: Things That Arouse Bubba

This is from Marc Griffin, a freelance outdoor writer from Arkansas:

Before I get started, I warn you now, there is no easy way for a man nearing 50 to impart wisdom learned onto the next generation. Still, as my father and grandfather did, I look at it as almost a duty, a carrying on of generations, if you will. As such, this story may be long, for there is no short way to teach.

About 2 months ago my nuts started hurting me. It wasn't a sudden pain, just a gradual idea that my nuts hurt. Not a sharp pain, just a dull, continuous, ache. Being a man who believes in the wonders of modern medicine, I needed a doctor.

Now, I don't know if you ever googled "nut pain" but, I can tell you now, only about half of the search is related to medicine and doctors. The rest, the best I can tell, is related to walnuts, or chesnuts, or crazy people.

It turns out that I needed a gastro doctor, because apparently your nuts are somehow connected to your stomach.....go figure.....this whole thing is becoming a learning experience.

In order to spare you the details of a man grabbing my sack, let me just skip to telling you that I was diagnosed with hernias, s being the most important letter of that particluar word in this specific case. Yes, hernias, one on each side, which has, the best I can tell when I cough, caused my balls to get sucked up into my stomach, which must be why I needed a gastro doctor to begin with. Again, the things a man can learn just by living long enough.

At this point, the story gets a bit personal, but it must be told. The doc asks me if I ever had any trouble with my "testicals". I hate that word, it's like calling poontang a vagina, and was probably invented for people who didn't want to talk about the subject to begin with, so they made up a word nobody wanted to say. Anyway, it turns out that I did, as a kid, have a problem with my left, uh.........nut. From what I can remember of a child of 8 or 9, that sucker didn't want to come down into the world with the right one. It stayed hid up wherever nuts come from.

Now, I can't remember the exact content of the conversation between my dad and the doc back then, but the jist of it was that the doc said that if they did not fix the hung up ball, I would most likely never have kids and was a great risk of......uh......testicular cancer. The rest of the conversation surrounded the procedure, which included tying a string to my ball, and then pulling it down, and tying the other end of the string to my leg so that the unruly nut could be trained to stay with his partner.

Of course, being only 8 or 9, I didn't understand all of the terminology, but it was pretty damn clear, even at my tender age, that having one of your balls tied to your leg didn't seem like something a boy could just run around with without tearing his nut off, or at the very least, a chunk of his leg. I can vividly remember watching my dad mull the whole thing over in his mind, before he said something along the line of, "we'll go with no kids and cancer, thanks."

It turned out, my wayward ball found his way home, at least partially, but I never really gave it much thought. If you think about it, a fella don't begin scratching and adjusting his balls until he's a grown man. I can't say I ever missed that thing, and didn't even realize it worked things out on it's own until I was old enough to barely remember it not being there. Besides, I went on to father 5 children so it never became part of a discussion again, until this damn gastro doctor brought it up.

Now, I can't say I was really paying attention to the next thing the doc told me, because after a man grabs your nuts, makes you cough, and then puts his finger up next to those suckers until your eyes are about to pop out, your mind just shuts down. Apparently, your balls are connected to your stomach, but then they run straight into your eyeballs and into your brain. Who knew?

He said something about checking for cancer, and an ultrasound. I said, "huh?". He said, "I'll set you up for a testicular ultrasound before we talk about surgery, to make sure there are no issues we can't see." I can honestly say, without hestitation, that testicular ultrasound are two words I didn't even know you could put together. That's something you expect to read in a headline in the morning paper, something like, The Israeli's are massing troops on the border after learning that Iran has a secret testicular ultrasound plant. "Uh.........how's that go?" He explained that it was like an x-ray, only it gave a real time 3 dimensional picture of what your balls look like. Whatever.

The doc says, "you may want to shave your groin area, it'll save some time when you go in for the appointment with the ultrasound tech." Well hell, my day is just getting better and better. The Best I can figure when I leave there is that my nuts are in my stomach, they may be ate up with cancer, and now they need to suffer the indignation of being hairless. Yes, I've heard that some of you younger dudes shave your nuts.....that's great.....you're stupid. I can prove you're stupid because I shaved mine 2 days before the ultrasound, and by day two it felt like a porcupine had taken up residence in my shorts. Why anyone would do that to themselves for the hell of it I don't know, and don't tell me that the women like it......who gives a fork what they like. Which, unfortunately, brings me to the lesson part of this story.

I go to the "imaging center" with my shaved balls, which are not really shaved because they now reside in my stomach, just behind my eyeballs.

I go through registration and eventually get taken to the exam room, where I sit, waiting..........waiting.........waiting.....until , in walks Carla.. Long dark hair and about 30 years old, not a knock out, but a fairly good looking gal. I figure she's gonna ask me some more questions and then the tech dude will come in and get this over with. But then Carla says, "I need you to lay down on the table. It's up to you, some men take all of their clothes off, some just their pants, and some just pull their pants down a ways. It's up to you, I'll leave the room, you can cover up with the sheet, and then I'll be back and we'll get started." I say, "WHAT? Who's doing this deal?" Carla says, "I am the tech, don't worry about it, it's painless." I refrain from saying, "yes, I know it's painless, in fact, I usually like to have some gal rubbing my nuts."

So Carla leaves and I sit there pondering my three options. I wonder for a bit why there ain't option 4, "just pull one of your balls through your zipper and we'll get some pictures", but there ain't. I opt for just taking my pants off, because laying there with my pants around my ankles seems dangerous if I decide I need to get out of there in a hurry.

So here comes Carla, and I'm laying there like a goof with a sheet over me....wondering just how this is supposed to work.....and then Carla gets a tube of jelly and starts rubbing it in her hands. She pulls the sheet down and begins to rub the jelly on my balls. In a near panic, I realize that I better think of something I hate, and fast. For the life of me, the only thing that comes to my head is califlower....I hate that crap!!! I don't know how anyone eats it. Carla is rubbing my nuts and I'm like an Arab chanting at the wailing wall.....califlower, califlower, califlower.....she's talking to me, but I got my hand over my eyes....califlower, califlower,califlower.......she grabs a towel an puts it over my johnson, touching it a bit as she does....CALIFLOWER, CALIFLOWER, CALIFLOWER....this is gonna get ugly embarrasing.

Next thing I know, she says, "this may tickle a bit."

"WHOA......HOLD ON A MINUTE".

She ignores me and starts to run that damn vibrating ultrasonic pecker hardener on my balls.....OH DAMN, CALIFLOWER!!!!!!

I'm still hiding my eyes and now I'm trying not to laugh, and the chant must be comingout of me because Carla says, "what?".....I have no idea what to say, so I blurt out, "you like califlower?" She says, "not really, what brought that up?" I can't talk.......and then she says, "your right testical is a bit larger then your left testical"......how the hell do you respond to something like that when the person who says it is a gal with a vibrator in her hand? "uh, thanks." She laughs.....califlower, califlower, califlower.....and I've about got tears in my eyes trying to figure out when this deal will end.

But no......more jelly, and on up toward the top of my balls.....I now envision entire fields of califlower, and people with califlower heads, and God help me, I can feel it coming. I says, "Uh"....and Carla says....I swear to God this mofo says, "don't worry if you get a bit aroused, it means all the parts are working."

You think???

I'm pretty sure at some point I just passed out......and when I woke up Carla was telling me I was clear.....no cancer......and I was thinking like my dad did 40 years ago, hell, I'd of just took the cancer if I'd have known where this whole deal was going.

The lesson?

There ain't one......I lied....there is no lesson, just life.

Still....it could happen to you.

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"Being deeply learned and skilled, being well trained and using well spoken words; this is good luck."

Here, Rich. Wouldn't want to pass up this one either.

I guess I'll tell it again.....

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With the killing season upon us, and me sitting here with some broke nuts, my wife and kids watching the food network, I might as well write. Bored as I am, and with my Cardinals gone from World Series contention, RB reminded me of one of my finest moments.

This story, although true from start to finish, it may not be something you want to read with food or drink in your mouth. Again, I offer this only as a service to those younger then me, because this could happen to you, and you need to be ready.

At this particular point in my hunting career, I was, each day, working until 11pm, sleeping for an hour or so, and then driving 2 hours to a wade-in public area. It was only a 30 day season back then, and my body adjusted as such:

Work
Sleep for an hour in my truck
Pick up my buds
Drive two hours
Take a crap
Gear up
Walk 2 miles
Set up
Hunt
Drive home
Sleep for 3 or 4 hours
Repeat

I realize in this era of 60 day seasons, with zones that can easily stretch it to 90 days, my daily regimen seems foreign to some of you youngsters. Learn some history, it may save you.

I guess I was about halfway through my season when the subject of this story reared it's ugly head, but, looking back, and as a lesson to be learned, it could have happened any day.

We arrived at the parking lot at about 3:30, just like every other day. If I remember right, I was more then tired on this particular drive, and actually crawled into the back of my truck to get some extra sleep while I let one of my partners make the drive.

I rolled out, stretched, and took a short walk to get my bowels moving. If your so inclined, you can go back toward the start of this story and see that step five is taking a crap.....it's just what I like to do before I put my waders on and begin a force march down a levee....who doesn't?

To this day I can't say what was wrong, but I didn't have to chit. I walked a bit longer then usual, jumped up and down a few minutes, even drank some cold coffee.........nothing. I figured, piss on it, gimme my waders, no worries.

Still, all the way down that levee I'm thinking, "dude, you KNOW you're gonna have to take a crap", but nothing happens.

At the end of the walk we head out to the hole. It's about a 1/4 mile walk through waist deep water to a spot where there is a break of 6 foot willows. Most days, we sit back against the willows and rain hell on ducks coming back from the fields looking for water.

After the walk we throw out a few dozen decoys and wait the next hour or so until shooting time. The wait is the same as the wait we all still make when hunting a public area where it's important to beat the crown in. Not much you can do about it.

I sit back against a particularly stout willow, break open a thermos with some luke warm coffee, and fire me up a spud to pass the time and relax.....and then it hits me.

I don't know how your crap works, but mine don't give me alot of warning. At the first clue of downward bowel movement I head for somewhere I can squat down. Taking a quick look around, I instinctively realize I'm in a bit of trouble.

My first bad move is looking around where I stand, I wasted precious seconds. But, I've chit from a tree before, so it made perfect sense, to me, to check the diameter of the willows in close proximity. Nothing close to being able to hold me, I'm quickly on the move, with no idea where I'm going, praying I can make the levee before the......uh.........flood.

I gave my leave to my partners, and guess I'd went about 60 yards before I realized that I'd slept through the 6th grade science class where we were taught that beer, beef jerky, sunflower seeds, and brandy won't make a solid, but looking back at my childhood failings wasn't helping now anyway. I was in trouble.

At some point in my walk, my flashlight ended up in my hand. I can't say when I grabbed it, because I was busy as hell concentrating on holding back the, well, I guess most of you know it as a "turtle head". Once you get older that anology won't hold as well. Sometimes it's a turtle, sometimes it's a snake, and sometimes it's a water slide.....you've got to get older to understand it.

So there I am, walking, stopping, pinching, praying, shining my light, walking, stopping, pinching, praying, shining my light.

And there it is, hell, I KNEW it was there, a big ass tree down in the middle of this field. I'd seen it before and wondered how the hell that tree ended up there to begin with, but right now, it didn't matter. I headed towards it as fast as I could, stopping, pinching, praying.

By now I was in a seriously bad situation.....you can try to imagine it if you want, but I can barely make 3 or 4 feet before I have to stop again. I need to get nearly 50 feet behind me, and still be able to crawl up on it. I can relate the next 30 feet to you, but it's pretty damn repetitive, so there ain't no point.

Maybe 20 feet from salvation, I'm done. I can't say for sure if biology got me or I just gave up. I was tired. I stood there, pinching, and just quit. I can tell you that in that particular momment I was happy to quit.....I was in pain.

When the first wave rushed out of me and into my pants it felt kind of weird. It was maybe 35 degrees that morning, and when 98.6 degrees of chit starts filling your pants it just feels strange. But, if you've been holding it in long enough that your teeth hurt, it also feels good.....and so I just let it go. Hell, I was tired of fighting, and now I stood there actually taking a crap, in my pants. I can remember wishing I had a magazine. I didn't move for 4 or 5 minutes, even let myself lean back a bit in the waist deep water. Looking back, I've never taken a crap that felt better. Yeah, it felt kind of bad when it started running down my legs, but I didn't really have anywhere else I needed to be right then, and I felt an overwhelming sense of relief.

So there I am. My underwear, pants, and maybe even my socks, are full of chit. The good news is I don't have to crap anymore, and there is still 30 minutes until shooting time. I head for the tree.

I climb on up onto the tree, and it's plenty big enough around for me to take care of business. It takes me a minute to formulate a plan, but soon enough I'm stripping my upper clothes off. I figure I need something to clean up with once I get to the mess, and my tee-shirt will fit the bill. Once I get my upper clothes off I begin the operation to get to my soiled clothes. I take my waders off and lay them on the tree next to me. I peel my pants off and realize that I won't be able to put them back on, the leakage through my long-johns was worse then I feared. Throw the pants in the water. Throw the long-johns in the water. Peal my underwear off and throw them in the water....along with my socks that covered with crap when I pulled the rest of my clothes over them.

So there I am, completely naked, standing on a downed tree in the middle of 400 acres of waist deep water, covered in chit from the waist down.

Taking stock, I'm really not in too bad a shape. My upper clothes are dry and my waders are not soiled. I'm good.

I lean over and get my tee-shirt good and wet and begin to clean myself up. Get the tee-shirt wet, clean, rinse, repeat. About the third time I swish the tee-shirt in the water I think I hear some swishing that I ain't making....and I straighten up and stand still. I guess there is a time in your life where your senses may be more keen then when you are standing naked on a log, but I've not had that experience yet.....I can hear EVERYTHING....and right about the time I hear the water again I can see the light panning back and forth. Oh, hell NO!!!

If you duck hunt, you know how depth and sound and voices can play tricks on you in the dark......goddamit, just how close are these bastards?

I guess I've got my ass and one leg clean, but I've got work to do!! I start rinsing the tee-shirt again, frantically now, and cleaning and rinsing, and rinsing and cleaning, and.....now I can hear these sumbitches.....one of them actually says, "that tree is right here somewhere"....and the light is searching....and it's one of those damn big ass hand held spotlight deals and, before I know what the hell happens ,that sucker stops right on me....naked, with a shitty tee-shirt in my hand. One of those bastards says, "DAMN!!" Well, yeah, damn. Then he says, "you OK?" I says, "no, I chit in my pants". And the same dude says, "DAMN".......like he's never chit in his pants before. I yell, "get the goddamn light off me". One of them says, "you hunting here?" "Uh, no, I'm cleaning my ass here and then I'm hunting back over there." Now they bust up laughing and I'm so tore up laughing I can't hardly finish cleaning up.

In the end, they walked off, I cleaned up, and went back to my buds.....still a few minutes before shooting time. I tell them the story and we miss the first 20 minutes or so because we're laughing so hard.

I can tell you, if you ain't ever hunted naked in your waders, give it a run, you'll enjoy it....even if driving home naked in your waders ain't all that great.

griffin

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Sucker's one OoS typist now!

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