By Edmund Sledge
Doug Putterman was no masochist. Nor was he insane; misunderstood, perhaps, but not insane. In point of fact, Doug was simply a man who had spent a lifetime in search of the perfect kick in the nuts.
His quest had taken him to the farthest corners of the world, enlisting the services of Rockettes and Riverdancers, martial artists and soccer players, and more stout-legged dominatricies than he could remember. They had all kicked his balls, and kicked them very, very hard. Just not hard enough.
So Doug had begun seeking out kangaroos, ostriches and particularly ill-tempered Shetland ponies, and the pummeling each creature had delivered upon his testes had been fierce and magnificent indeed. But alas, this had only whet his appetite for more.
Increasingly desperate, Doug had even journeyed to the mountain redoubt of the infamous Doctor Suzuki Yakamoto, inventor of the gyroscopic testicle-kicking dynamo, and there his gonads had been punished relentlessly for a fortnight. But this, too, could not satisfy his desires completely.
Many years of frustration passed. Then, while walking through the forest one day, Doug stumbled across a cave, and in this cave there sat an old Indian shaman quietly tending a small fire. He gestured for Doug to sit down beside him.
"What is it you seek?" the shaman asked.
"I seek the perfect kick in the nuts," Doug replied.
The shaman stared at him for what seemed like an eternity. "I can help you find this thing," he finally said, lighting a stick of incense, "but you must have a patient mind and a noble spirit.
"And one more thing," the shaman said as he rose slowly to his feet. "You must first kick me, in my nuts."
Doug was confused but did as he was told, and the shaman groaned and crumpled to the ground. His eyes rolled back in his head, and his body began to quiver, as if possessed by the mighty spirits of the ancients. Suddenly, the small fire roared to life with bright, blue flames that licked hungrily at the roof of the cave. Shadows danced on the walls like unseen madmen. Then an eagle cried out from atop a nearby mountain.
Finally, the shaman spoke. "Your quest is over, Doug Putterman," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "You've finally found the perfect kick in the nuts!"
Doug fell to his knees, dumbstruck. Oh, how he wished it were his testicles that now ached so splendidly, and not his broken heart!
(Writer Edmund Sledge is one of America's foremost chroniclers of grievous groin injury.)
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
THE PERFECT KICK IN THE NUTS
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3 comments:
This is a lot like that cute little story of the city-slicker who went hunting out in the country, shooting for ducks. He took aim and managed to shoot one, but the duck glided a few hundred extra yards and landed on the other side of a fence, in what was obviously private property. The hunter stood there for a few minutes, wondering what to do, and then after taking a few glances around, decided to retrieve his duck. He set his shotgun against a thick wooden fence post, took off his hunting jacket and then his insulated pants, and began working his way through a few strands of barbed wire. Just as he cleared himself and was walking across the field, a farmer came running from out of nowhere and picked up the duck. The farmer slung the slack carcass over his shoulder and began walking back. But the city guy yelled out, "Hey! That's MY duck!" The farmer turned and said, "It was right here in MY field. It's my duck." City guy said, "But I just shot it from the other side of the fence and it dropped in here. You know that!" The farmer said, "Well, I guess that since we're here, we're gonna settle this the country way." Slick answer tentatively, "Yeah? What's that mean?" The farmer said, "It means we're gonna take turns kicking each other in the nuts. Last man standing gets to keep the duck." There was a pause, but then the city slicker nodded his agreement. "And," said the farmer, "since it's my land, I get to go first." And with that pronouncement, he swung his booted foot and caught the gentleman square in the nutsack and crunched the dude's nads against his pelvis. The man screamed out in pain, but was able to maintain his balance and finally to catch his breath, the farmer all the while enjoying the results of his well-aimed kick. The city slicker finally stood up straight and said, "Okay, now it's my turn." But the farmer turned and said, "Naw, I lost interest. You keep the duck."
Yes! While conducting research for this story, I also fell prey to several variations on the rural, nut-kicking ruse. I "kept the duck," as it were, until my crotch was battered black and blue
O. Henry should have had such perfectly ironic endings to his tales...
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