What you're about to read is a cautionary tale. In no way, whatsoever, is this just an excuse for me to write about my man parts. Thanks!
It was a Saturday morning. Like most Saturday mornings these days, I woke up with a hangover. While powering through delirium tremens, I like to eat ethnic food.
To join me, I called up my buddy Dr. Joel. He's not a real doctor, he's a chiropractor. We call him Dr. Joel as a constant reminder of how stupid it is that chiropractors call themselves doctors. Anyway, he adjusted my back, then we went for Pho.
If you're unfamiliar with Pho, it's a Vietnamese soup bowl/hangover remedy. It has noodles, meats, vegetables, and, unfortunately, raw chili peppers. When eating Pho, one takes all these ingredients and manually adds them to the soup according to desired taste. Because I don't know how to use chop sticks, I used my hands.
Jews generally don't do well with spicy foods. Still, I like a very specific amount of heat in my Pho. Therefore, I paid extra attention to my distribution of the chilis. First, I removed all the seeds, with my hands. Next, I tore the chilis apart one by one (with my hands). And finally, with my hands, I threw the chilis into the soup. The Pho was delicious.
Once done, we headed to Cigars on Sixth for a quick smoke. Then, I bid adieu to my fake doctor Pho eating friend. Back at The Iron Mike Compound, I reclined on the couch and picked up my newly purchased copy of They Call Me Baba Booey.
Now, most people don't realize how much men touch their junk when they're alone. It's not a sexual thing, well sometimes it's a sexual thing, but most of the time it's not. It's just something to do with our hands, something to hold on to while we're thinking, something to keep our nubs warm. We're men - we touch ourselves. It helps us concentrate, it calms our souls, it gives us the assurance that our masculine organs still exist.
With that said, while reading Gary Dell' Abate's tales of life as Howard Stern's producer, my hands, tragically still unwashed, made their way down south. Moments later, my netherrod started tingling. It felt like I had accidentally rubbed Ben Gay on my jock strap. Soon, the tingle became a sting. It felt like I had tripped and landed dick-first onto a cactus. Then, the sting became an all-out burn. It felt like I had humped a bowl of battery acid.
Life for my penis was not good.
I let out a yelp and then a whimper. Sweat beads poured from my brow, my belly, and my balls. I couldn't sit still. Shit, I couldn't sit. I bounced around the room, hoping to shake off the pain. I couldn't. This was prick purgatory. I wouldn't know (and I have the documentation to prove it, ladies!), but I assume this is what syphilis or gonorrhea would be like. What the hell was going on?
Then, I remembered the chilis...
Phalluses have an overabundance of nerve endings. Chili peppers irritate nerve endings. My innocent sword stroking must've led to genital pepper contamination. I had inadvertently acquired Chili Willy aka Hot Cock aka The Fire Down Below.
Frantic, I went online to find out what to do. I looked up "chili+penis" on Google. Of course, I got all kinds of poorly spelled porn related to the Chilean miners. Not cool, especially when it feels like you're getting a blowjob from a rabid cat. Without direction from the Internet, I hopped into a cold tub. It only made it worse. Now I was in pain AND cold.
After slipping naked on top of my dog (she likes to watch me bathe - don't judge!), I jumped into a hot shower and scrubbed my crotch with the vigor of a paint stripper. It didn't work either. Now, I was in pain and cold AND raw.
In my frenzied logic, I thought this was similar to a jellyfish sting. So, I ran next door and asked my neighbor Jim to pee on my peen. He wouldn't. He did say something about milk being used to dull the effects of hot foods. It was worth a shot.
With my baby-maker briskly blistering, I ran to Walgreens. I stopped to say hello to my friend who was on Intervention, then grabbed a gallon of milk. On my way home, the burning sensation intensified. I couldn't handle it anymore, so I ducked into an alley, pulled down my pants, and poured milk all over my schmeckel. It was like a dairy baptism for my circumcised skin flute. It eased the pain, but not for long I feared.
To be safe, I sought professional help. I called Dr. Joel. No, he's not a real doctor, but I figured he might know a real doctor. He did. As a favor, Dr. Lichtenberg (real doctors use their last names) made a house call. When he saw my melancholy meat stick, he laughed. Yes, it had been laughed at before, but not by a 65 year-old man.
The jolly MD gave me some sort of salve to rub on my pink sword. He then, believe it or not, told me to get drunk, saying that capsaicin, the active component of chili peppers, was soluble in alcohol. I took his advice.
The ordeal was soon over and my schlong was left unscathed, although it smelled like spoiled milk (probably an upgrade from how it usually smells). It was a harrowing experience, but it was an educational one as well. I now know what it would feel like to use my wang to remove cheese and tomato sauce from a steaming hot pizza. I now know I can't count on my neighbor Jim to urinate on me under any circumstance. And, of course, I now know to wear gloves before touching myself after handling chili peppers.